Solid Gold
by Ellerien Sylvani
Summary: Canon Divergence. After Wanderer steps into the Molecular Relay and doesn't return, the Railroad must face the possibility of her death. When she finally reaches the Institute, Wanderer may be faced with the most difficult decision of her life. A year ago, she would have stood by her family, no matter what. Now, with a revelation that changes everything, she's not so sure.
1. Chapter 1

It was finally happening. After months of fruitless searching, she finally had a chance to see her son again, alive and breathing. When she had last seen Shaun, he was an infant, only a few months old, held tightly in Nate's arms. Like she had done many times before, she delved into her memories to remember the day that Shaun was born, but it was so hazy and dark.

There were distant memories, and then there was her whole life before she was placed in cryostasis, which sometimes didn't even seem real. There were faces, mostly those of her late husband and her missing son, and of course the explosion, but the rest was a blur. How unlucky it was that the day she remembered the most, was the worst day of her life, the day the world had burst at its seams. The day the bombs fell. That must have been… two hundred and eleven years ago, now.

None of this made any sense from the beginning, anyway, and she didn't expect it to start making sense now.

She'd asked Doctor Carrington about it once, but he didn't seem to be too concerned about her broken mental state. "You've been through quite the ordeal," he had simply told her, not even looking up from his notes to dignify her concerns. "It's not uncommon for the mind to become… fragmented, after serious emotional trauma. With what you've been through, it doesn't surprise me in the slightest. Give your mind time to recover, and let me get on with my work, yes?"

From the evidence she'd gathered with the help of the Railroad, Nick Valentine, and several others, she had come to the eventual conclusion that her son was kidnapped from their underground Vault ten years ago, after she and her husband had already spent two hundred years in cryosleep. Ten years had passed, and she finally awoke from cryosleep to find her husband murdered, her son missing- stolen by a shadowy organization known as the Institute, for God knows what reason. Ten years of her son's life she had missed out on, nearly his entire childhood, but now was the time to make it all right. She was going to find him, and bring him back.

"Hello? Anyone in here? Did you hear what I just said, Wanderer?"

Wanderer blinked twice. Staring across the moonlit waters of Dorchester Bay, she had become so lost in thought that she didn't even notice that Deacon was speaking to her. That seemed to be happening a lot lately, much to Deacon's annoyance, and Wanderer's. It just gave him another reason to tease her.

He had just discovered blonde jokes, and now this.

"What were you saying?" she mumbled, finally pulling her eyes away from the Bay.

"Oh come on, Wanda. I know I'm handsome, but daydreaming about me is starting to become a very bad habit of yours," Deacon teased.

Wanda wasn't her real name, and neither was Wanderer, but he liked to call her that. Wanderer liked it a little bit too, though she would never admit it to anyone, least of all him. Both aliases were good as any, though; whenever she heard her name from before it summoned unwelcome memories. Who would have thought that names could hold so much power over someone?

She glared at him. "Shut up, D. Have you found the boat yet?"

"Sure I did. It's on the shore over there, see it?" he asked, pointing off into the darkness.

"Not really," Wanderer said, squinting her eyes to try and make out the boat. "It's too dark. Why couldn't we have done this when the sun was up, again?"

"It's called being stealthy. We're trying to avoid attention, remember? It's why we picked Spectacle Island in the first place."

Wanderer just sighed, strolling off in the general direction Deacon had pointed in search of the small wooden boat, muttering and wondering how he had spotted it before her even through his shades. Usually she would joke right alongside her travelling companion, but she wasn't exactly in the mood. She could be rowing off to her own death right now, and this would have all been for nothing.

"Hey! Wait up," he called, jogging after her. "Check out these waves," he said, staring across the shoreline through his sunglasses. "You got a surfboard with you?"

"Sorry pal, must have left it at home. We're just going to have to take the old rowboat," she said, finally finding it beached near the water. The nighttime ocean breeze whistled around her, bringing an unnatural calmness with it. Wanderer wasn't entirely sure that this was really happening.

"Bummer," muttered Deacon. He helped her push it back in the water; it took several heaves; the thing was heavier than it looked. Wanderer would have much preferred to take a better vehicle, probably something with a motor so they didn't have to row the whole way to the island, but drawing attention was too big of a risk. Such is the life of an undercover agent, Deacon would have told her if she had taken the time to voice her complaint.

They finally got the rowboat in the water as it slipped onto the shore with a splash that doused her legs completely. Her Geiger counter clicked urgently at her, so she dug for some Rad-X in her bag and a popped a pill, while Deacon did the same.

"Come on in, the water is… glowing," Deacon grumbled.

She stood back, admiring their handiwork before turning around and looking back at what was left of Boston. The city she'd grown up in, loved all her life, now a ruin. It was home to super mutants, raiders, ferals, and God knows what else. All her treasured memories, gone.

"You alright there?" Deacon asked, his voice showing a hint of concern. He was a liar and scarcely revealed to anyone what was going on inside that bald head of his, but she could tell when he was being genuine. Or at least, she thought she could.

"Yeah," she whispered. Wanderer took a deep breath in. "Yeah," she said again, more confidently this time. "I'm just… I might never see the city again. I'm just taking it in for a second."

Deacon said nothing at that.

After a minute, she turned back around, rubbing her arms anxiously. He was watching her.

"You ready to go, partner?"

She nodded. Deacon held the boat steady while she climbed in somewhat clumsily, and she reached out an arm to help him in after her. He took up the oars, handed one to her, and they began the trip across the Bay, to Spectacle Island.

"Watch out for 'Lurks in the water," Deacon warned, his tone grim. "They'll sneak up on us in an instant." Wanderer shivered, thinking of the great clawed beasts that snatched people up who stood too close to the water. Everything in this world was the stuff of nightmares.

Within several minutes, her arms ached from rowing, but she kept going. Months ago, the exertion would have been far more strenuous, but months in the wasteland had toned her muscles and hollowed out the spaces where there had been soft flesh before.

She was so close to her son, so close to the finish line, she could not rest now. The sound of waves crashing on the shore began to slowly subside as the two rowed further out to sea. It was difficult to locate the island in the darkness, but with the help of the map programmed onto her Pip-Boy and Deacon's inexplicably reliable night vision, they were able to make it there in just over an hour and a half.

"Dez and Tinker should be here by now. Let's go look for them," Deacon said, climbing eagerly out of the boat. He decided to himself that travel by boat was not his… favorite method of transportation. He could just barely make out the outline of the Brotherhood's airship in the sky back on the mainland, and supposed that he wouldn't much like flying, either. Nothing was as trustworthy as his own two legs, firmly planted on the ground.

Deacon offered Wanderer a hand when she climbed out after him, and she gratefully accepted.

It didn't take long for the pair to find Desdemona and Tinker Tom. The island was huge, but Tom had already set up an array of tech near the center, where it would not be susceptible to damage from the rising and falling of the tides. They found Tom typing away rapidly on a large control console. Several feet in front of him, a large metal platform was already built into place. Wanderer briefly wondered how he and Desdemona had been able to lug all of this scrap to the island.

"Good. You two are finally here," said Desdemona as they approached. Tom didn't look up at them, apparently too focused on the console. "Let's get this Teleporter built, and quickly," Desdemona barked. The woman seemed weary for once; back and HQ, their fearless leader was always so alert, ready for the worst at every moment.

Wanderer nodded, and Tom finally stepped away from the control console. "Wanderer!" he shouted excitedly. "Did y'all bring that tech I asked for?"

"We sure did," Deacon said, slinging the pack from his shoulders and removing the contents. "One military grade circuit board, and one biometric scanner, right here. Picked 'em up just for you, Tom." Tinker Tom took the scrap from Deacon, observing them and muttering to himself for a minute before setting them on top of the control console.

"What do you need us to do, Tom?" Wanderer asked, glancing at the plans he had laid out atop the control console, the plans she had retrieved from Virgil. Luckily enough, back in the day before the bombs fell, she had pursued engineering for a few years before getting her law degree. The plans looked fairly complex, but with her engineering experience and Tom's tech genius, she was sure they'd have this thing up and running in no time.

Whether it would actually teleport her to the inside of the Institute like it was supposed to was another matter entirely. Everyone else seemed to think it would vaporize her alive, but if there was a chance that these plans could build an actual teleporter, then it was worth it. Especially if she could get her son out of there.

"Well, the science of this monstrosity is _wow_ , but lucky for us, the ingredients- pretty simple. First thing's first, we need to get the Molecular Beam Emitter up and running, right over that platform over there," he said, pointing. "Lots of vacuum tubing and high-grade metal should do the trick. On the top we need to build a big-ass Tesla coil. You know, for that high-voltage, low-current electric-ity! This baby is what's going to split you apart and put you pack together, molecule by molecule. Here, take a look at these plans."

Frowning at his grisly description, she took the plans and pored over them.

"We already have a primary capacitor and the inductor coils. I'll let you take it from here, Wanderer," he said, strolling back over to his console and continuing whatever he had been working on.

"Right…" she mumbled, a little unsure of how to begin. "Deacon, can you build a secondary capacitor while I set up the RF chokes?" she asked, handing off the plans to him.

"Sure boss," he said halfheartedly. "I'll just pretend I know what you're talking about and make this capasy- thingy. No problem."

Wanderer rolled her eyes and pointed to the pile of tubing by the platform. "See those tubes? Make a giant metal donut out of it. That's going to help us hold the charge when we power this thing up."

Deacon grinned. "Now that I can do." It seems all the time he'd spent living underneath a Slocum's Joe was about to pay off.

After several hours of grueling work, they had finally set up the Beam Emitter and the Relay Dish, as well as a couple of generators to act as a power source. It was unusually cold outside, the blowing wind doing nothing for Wanderer's growing nerves. By the time they finished, the sun was just beginning to peek out over the horizon, spilling an ominous shade of red across the sky.

All they needed to do was power up the generators and wire it all into the same network, and they were ready to go. Deacon had taken care of most of the simple construction while Wanderer and Tom built the more complicated parts, Desdemona overseeing the group's work.

"Alright, Wanderer. Looks like everything's connected into the grid. All that's left is switching on the generators and powering this baby up! How about you do the honors?"

She looked over at Deacon first, then Desdemona. Deacon was giving her a thumbs-up, while Desdemona just nodded. Wanderer sucked in her breath, and switched on the first generator, the second, and then the third. Time seemed to slow as the final generator rumbled loudly, her limbs becoming heavy. The first crack of electricity was all she heard, the Beam Emitter whirring to life. The bright bolts of electricity were almost blinding, shooting in every direction.

"Status report, Tom," shouted Desdemona over the loud, mechanical humming of the interceptor.

"Everything's online and ready to go, Dez! We are in business. We got activity, not sure how long before it peaks."

Wanderer swallowed back the fear, and looked to her leader. The only thing she could think about was her son. If there was even a chance, the tiniest fleeting chance that this would take her to her son, then she was going to do it. Even if it burnt her to ashes.

"I guess it's time, Desdemona."

Desdemona nodded solemnly. "Do you remember what I told you about Patriot?"

Wanderer nodded.

"Good. Remember, if you make contact with him inside the Institute, we might find a way to save more synths then we ever have before. Here, take this holotope, it contains an encrypted message that only Patriot will be able to read if you upload it to the Institute's mainframe. We don't know what's waiting for you in there… if you make it at all. Whatever happens, you need to get as much information as you can, anything that will help us fight them. You are the synths' only hope, Wanderer."

She took the holotope and stuffed it in the pocket of her leathers, only nodding.

Her son came first. Assuming she got Shaun out alive and well, then she would infiltrate the Institute to the best of her ability. But first, her son. She didn't think Desdemona would understand.

Deacon stood near the beam emitter, expressionless. Behind his sunglasses, there was no way for Wanderer to tell what he was thinking. She approached him tentatively, unsure of what to say. Should she thank him for helping her get this far? Should she say goodbye, in case the Emitter completely vaporized her? He had been one of her truest friends she'd known since waking up from cryosleep, though he'd probably tease if her she told him that. Still… she wouldn't be here if not for him, and they both knew it.

All the words never came.

"You don't have to do this, Wanda," he said, breaking the silence for her. It was unusual to see him so serious.

"Yes, I do," Wanderer said. Deacon just nodded, not bothering to argue.

Neither of them knew what to say. "Booting up the scan sequence!" shouted Tom from the console. "Wanderer, we need to get going! This frequency is only going to work once, and You-Know-Who doesn't make the same mistake twice."

She looked up at Deacon, trying to see his eyes through the sunglasses.

"Well, see you on the other side, pal," he said encouragingly.

"See you," she said back, the words getting choked up in her throat. Wanderer turned quickly before he could say anything else and stepped onto the platform, the cacophony of the machine drowning out any other sounds.

Standing under the emitter, Wanderer could just smell the sharp cracks of electricity flying all around her, threatening to fry her alive. God, this was so crazy. Tom was yelling something as he worked away at the console, but she couldn't hear him. Whether that was due to the blood pounding loudly in her ears or just the noise of the machine, she wasn't sure.

This wasn't going to work. Her heart raced. She looked down at Deacon, he stared back up at her, his posture rigid.

Tinker Tom yelled something about molecules. She heard a loud burst and saw one of the vacuum tubes they had placed along the beams broken off the side, flying wildly about through the air.

Oh God, oh God, she kept hearing in her mind. Oh God, this wasn't going to work. Desdemona was yelling something at her, but she didn't hear it.

"NOW!"

The space all around her split loudly, a hole torn into reality itself, and everything went white.

A split second after she disappeared into thin air, the machine caved in on itself with a loud crack of electricity. All three of them were silent as they watched the device they'd spent hours building fall apart right before their eyes.

"Do… do you think she made it?" Tom asked, eyes wide.

"We're just going to have to wait and find out," Desdemona said, her voice faltering. Deacon was quiet, just stared for what felt like hours at the pile of rubble. Eventually, he found himself on his knees, sifting through the rubble for some sign that she'd really been teleported.

They lingered on the Island for a day or two, waiting around for something to happen, though they weren't sure what it was they were even waiting for. Even if she were somehow able to teleport back to the island, would it even work after the signal interceptor had essentially imploded on itself?

For several hours, all Tom would do was come up with every single reason why the signal interceptor might have malfunctioned. Desdemona said little, which was normal for her, but Deacon was not usually so silent. Deacon usually loved to listen to Tom's crazy theories- it gave him a good laugh- but right now, he was on edge. If Tom opened his mouth one more-

"Oh- what if we locked on to the wrong signal? If she wasn't completely vaporized in that junk over there, what if we didn't send her to the Institute? What if we sent her to a cave that was filled with… with mutants! Or deathclaws-"

Deacon shuffled away. He couldn't listen to this anymore.

After two more days passed, and she still hadn't shown, Desdemona and Tom told Deacon that they were going to head back to the HQ and wait for any news there.

"I'm staying," he said simply. If- no, _when_ , she reappeared back here, then he was going to be there when it happened.

"I know," Desdemona said softly. "If we hear anything, we'll send a runner out."

He waved his hand in acknowledgement, but said nothing. They left sometime after, but Deacon just sat on the sandy ground, staring still at the pile of metal and vacuum tubing where Wanderer had disappeared two days ago.

The next day, he alternated between sifting through the rubble and staring out at the ocean. The day after wasn't much different. For hours he waited, and waited for her to reappear.

On the fifth day, he could barely get out of his sleeping bag. It rained, and he desperately wished he had a bottle of bourbon.

On the seventh day, Deacon was at his wit's end. A full week since she'd gone into the damn teleporter, and nothing. Nothing. He was no stranger to loss, especially of those close to him. Hell, death may as well be his next door neighbor. In his early twenties, he'd seen his own wife murdered before him. Just a few months ago, when the Institute attacked their old headquarters, a good portion of his comrades were slaughtered by Coursers. None of that was even the half of it.

Around midday, he spotted a rowboat on the Bay, drifting toward the island. Deacon stayed out of sight, using the rolling sandy hills of the island to conceal his position. As he watched the boat come closer, he tried to see who it was coming to the island. A runner, with news of Wanderer's whereabouts? Had she finally returned from the Institute?

As the boat began to come into view, he saw that it wasn't Wanderer, but instead looked to be one of the runners for the Railroad, Deacon noted, but he was still cautious. The Institute had a nasty habit of kidnapping people and creating synth replicas of them to gain information. After a couple of minutes of watching the boat approach the island, the agent in question moored the small rowboat onto the island, and Deacon made his approach, careful not to startle the newcomer.

It was a kid, about fifteen or sixteen, lean with scraggly red hair, dressed in ragged jeans and an old flannel. "Hey there," he greeted as he neared the kid.

The runner looked up at him. "Hey! Deacon, right? Man, this place was a real pain to find," he complained, stretching his shoulders.

"You got a Geiger counter, pal?"

"Oh- mine is in the shop."

"Got any news for me?"

The runner nodded, handing Deacon a folded note. "Yeah, yeah I do. HQ asked me to bring you this, man."

He glanced at the note, and then back up at the runner. "You got a name?" he asked.

"Foxtail. Pleased to meet you," he said. "I'm one of the runners for Mercer, but I had some business back at HQ. They asked me to take this to you, sounded pretty important." Of course, Deacon knew who Foxtail was; he knew who everybody was. Intel was his job, after all. He unfolded the note, trying to keep his fingers from shaking.

' _Our Bird watcher is silent. The wind has blown.'_

Deacon read the note three times, looking for any indication that he'd just made a mistake, that his eyes had played a trick on him. He didn't want to believe the note's message, but his eyes were truthful.

Desdemona believed that Wanderer was dead.

He took the flip lighter from his pocket and burned the note, letting the ashes fall to the sandy beach beneath his feet. Deacon's hands trembled as he clumsily singed one of his fingers in the process, a blunder he hadn't made since he was a teenager reaching for a cigarette for the first time.

"Mind if I catch a ride back to the mainland with you, pal?" Deacon asked, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses.

It took Deacon about a day and a half to reach the Railroad HQ on foot, and by the time he reached the Church, there was still no sign of Wanderer. The Railroad knew better than to hope, than to have any belief that she was still alive, because this was no different than their other attempts. This was the closest they'd come to finally getting the drop on the Institute, and in doing so, they'd lost one of their own and met only failure. Again.

He knew he should be used to this feeling by now, but the truth was that it never stopped hurting. A dull ache ever present in his chest, but this blow felt more like a sharp stab. Still, he'd do what he always did. A new face, a new name, a new lie. He'd run forever if he had to.

Drummer Boy interrupted him from his thoughts. "Hey, Deacon. You owe me a hundred caps."

Deacon held back a sigh of exasperation. Drummer Boy had proposed that they bet a hundred caps on whether Wanderer would make it out of the Institute, and he'd been all too happy to bet on her. Why wouldn't he? From the moment she'd arrived in the Commonwealth he'd kept a close eye on her, believing that she was the key to the Railroad's success against the Institute. Even before he'd first laid eyes upon her, he'd discovered the records of the Vault project, had studied Vault 111 and read about the cryostasis subjects, still frozen, and her name had stood out. Even then, he'd had a good feeling about her, and he'd never miss the opportunity to bet on her.

Since the first day she'd woken up to the nuclear Commonwealth, Wanderer had been relentless.

Now, the bet just seemed foolish. He tossed the small pouch of coins without a word, resenting Drummer Boy's apathy for their fallen comrade. Deacon went out of his way to ensure he didn't speak to anyone else in HQ that day.

The next morning, exactly ten days since she'd stepped into that relay machine, everyone in Railroad HQ gathered around the old crypt that they'd transformed into their base of operations. An aura of solemnity hung in the musty air, as real as the thick layers of dust coating every last brick and tomb. It seemed to Deacon that no matter how long that the Railroad occupied the church, the dust would never go away. He hung towards the back of the crypt, listening closely but keeping away from the small crowd that had gathered to hear their leader's pensive words.

"We have lost another of our own," Desdemona announced. It was silent. "Although many of us hoped that our recent discoveries would aid us in finally infiltrating the Institute, the mission has been indeterminate. We cannot let down our fallen operatives, and we must carry on. See to it that their sacrifices are not in vain; our focus must remain on the Institute."

As usual, her speech was strong, but many in HQ had begun to lose faith a long time ago. This was just another failure, another setback, another fallen comrade. The secretive mission had been a long-shot, but promising. What had felt like their last sliver of hope had been taken from them as quickly as it had appeared. Even with the dwindling dream of saving and protecting the synths, many were unable to leave the Railroad. They'd cut connections with the little family they'd had, so they would not be in danger. Such dreams of saving the synths and destroying the Institute often seemed hopeless, but what else did they have to cling to?

Unable to listen to any more, Deacon left through the escape tunnel in the back.

When he returned later, under the list of agents on their old chalkboard, her code name had been striked out: _Wanderer._ Himself and Glory were the only agents remaining.


	2. Chapter 2

Wanderer's heart seemed to stop as soon as she saw him, trapped behind that glass barrier like he was some sort of animal at a zoo. Without hesitation, she had flung her whole body against the glass, calling to him. He had her ashy blonde hair, but he looked so much like his father, so much so that her heart ached at the sight of him.

"Shaun, listen to me! You're my son, and I'm going to get you out of this place, baby! Please, how do I get to you?"

The child had frozen in fear at the strange woman's manic state. The warmth of his freckled, rosy face clashed severely with the white jumpsuit that was eerily similar to a prison uniform.

"I don't know you! Go away!" the child shouted, scrambling away from the glass.

Her face contorted in pain at his reaction. He didn't even know who she was. Her heart thumped wildly as she continued pounding on the glass, her rational mind shutting off. These Institute bastards have brainwashed him, she thought bitterly. He was a prisoner here, and he didn't even know it.

"No, Shaun! I'm your mother! Please believe me, you're my son!"

"Shaun," called an elderly man, entering the room from a door opposite her. "S9-23 Recall Code Cirrus." In response, Shaun slumped over, still standing on his feet. The child's head hung limply from his neck, his back curving unnaturally.

Wanderer stared in horror at her son's lifeless, slouched form, obstructed from her by the large glass panel. Her mind was muddled, and her hands shook so violently that she wouldn't have been able to hold her pistol, had she even thought to remove it from its holster.

She tried to wrap her mind around what the hell was going on. A recall code… those were for synths, she thought vaguely. After all the misery the Institute had caused her, they were playing yet another cruel trick in hiding her son from her.

"Fascinating… yet disappointing," observed the old man, watching Shaun with calculating blue eyes.

It was unsettling, but his eyes seemed almost familiar to her.

"The child's responses were not at all what I anticipated. He's a prototype, you understand. We're only just now beginning to test the effects of extreme emotional stimuli."

The trembling had spread to her legs now, and her chest ached with so many emotions all at once. Wanderer's breathing was labored, and the elderly man just then seemed to take notice of her panic.

"Please," he said, throwing his hands up, trying to calm the distraught woman. "Try and keep an open mind. I recognize that you are emotional, and that your journey here has been fraught with challenges. Let's start anew. I am Father. Welcome to the Institute."

"Give me my son!" she screamed, rage bubbling in her chest at his words. His calmness was unnerving, pushing her worn emotions completely over the edge. The edges of her vision began to blur.

Overcome with emotion, she had forgotten in that moment every lesson that Deacon had taught her. Keep calm, he'd say, and wait for your opportunity to strike where it hurts the most. She heard his voice in the back of her head, reminding her to play it smart, but his voice was melting away.

Father sighed.

"I know, I know… you've gone such lengths to find him. You have traveled very far, and suffered a great deal, to find your son."

"No shit," she spat, mustering her most deadly glare, still wrought with rage. The old man frowned, but continued.

"Well, your tenacity and dedication have been rewarded. It's good to finally meet you… mother."

What?

Liar.

The Institute had no shortage of cruel games, did they?

Her legs finally buckled and she lost consciousness before her body met the ground.

When she awoke, she saw white. A pure, clean white that she hadn't seen since she had stepped into that cryopod so many months ago. The Commonwealth was filthy by nature, and she had grown so accustomed to it that even the sight of clean, white walls seemed imposing.

Her body felt so heavy, as if a weight had been set upon her chest. She struggled against herself for a few minutes before giving up, eyes drifting back shut.

Bolts of electricity flashed through her mind as she slept. She could still feel the prickling of the energy along the skin of her arms, her body weightless as it evaporated from the air completely. Deacon's face, the last thing she saw before everything changed.

Wanderer's breath quickened again, as she realized she was in a completely alien environment. Where was Shaun? Had it all been a concoction of her delirious dreams?

"Mrs. Farren? Are you awake?" she turned to find the source, but found her movements slow, stiffened with fatigue. She was in some kind of cot... no, a real hospital bed. Not something scrapped into a makeshift stretcher, but something real.

An austerely uniformed man stood in the doorway, staring at her with a piercing gaze. He was clean-shaven, his skin free of blemishes and untainted by the horrors of the wasteland, a sight so rare these days. His lab coat was so white and her vision so blurred that it was almost difficult to distinguish him from the walls.

"You had a nasty fall, and you went into shock shortly after your arrival. You've been out for a few days now, Mrs. Farren. Father will be so pleased to hear that you're awake."

Her mind felt like mud. She hadn't heard that name in months, let alone been addressed with it. How did this man know her name from before, anyway? She said nothing but closed her eyes, letting the world melt away once more.

When she awoke again, Father was seated in a chair, aptly placed beside her bed. He was silent, staring at her, hands folded neatly in his lap. She tried to meet his calm yet intense stare but her lids threatened to droop again- his eyes were so familiar. Where had she seen those eyes before?

For a long time, she stared into his eyes, as he stared back at her.

"I'm sure you have questions," he started, breaking the silence.

She said nothing for several minutes, taking in his clean, familiar features. Without the distraction of the synth child, she finally could take in the man's entire appearance. He was old but not senile- in the old world before the bombs fell she'd have placed him around 60, but she wasn't so sure now. A nuclear wasteland tends to age its' inhabitants fairly quickly, she'd noticed.

Despite the man's age, his face was still handsome in a way that was firm, yet friendly. He carried himself rigidly, but the wrinkles by his eyes and a cool smile showed a hint of charm. He must be a leader, or at least some kind of public figure. Just by looking at him it was easy to see how he could be respected, even admired by many.

Her husband had been the same way- that cool masculine energy with his eyes that drew you in… it was what had drawn her to him in the first place. Every observation deepened the growing pit of dread in her stomach; he looked exactly how she'd imagined Nate would look when he would someday grow old.

Of course, Nate would never have the chance to grow old.

"Where is my son?" she whispered quietly, fearing whatever answer she would receive. Nonetheless, she had to know. Wanderer felt heavier by the second.

"He's here, in the Institute," Father replied with ease. "Closer than you might think."

She didn't like the smug smile on his face, and felt the anger creeping back in. Why couldn't these Institute bastards ever just give her a straight fucking answer?

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" She asked through gritted teeth. She couldn't wait any longer. She had come this far, searching for the answer for so long, and now he was dangling the answer right in front of her face. Like she was some kind of _plaything._

Father sighed. "I need you to realize that this… situation… is far more complicated than you could have imagined. You have traveled very far, and suffered a great deal, to find your son. Well, your tenacity and dedication have been rewarded." He paused, his sly smile returning.

"It's good to finally meet you, after all this time," he continued. "It's me. I am Shaun. I am… your son."

His familiar eyes, Nate's eyes. The mischievous and yet subtle smile that seemed so habitual, just like Nate. She wanted to fight his words, scream and call him a liar, demand to see her son. At the same time, it simply made sense, like the final puzzle piece falling into place.

Maybe it was all the time she'd spent around Deacon, or maybe it was some old connection between their souls, mother and son. Wanderer knew he wasn't lying. She felt that, deep within her core, horrible as it was, he was telling the truth.

"How?" she whispered, without a trace of denial.

"In the Vault, you had no concept of the passage of time. You were released from your pod, and went searching for the son you'd lost. You believed that ten years had passed, since your son was taken from you. The reality is that it was not ten, but sixty years."

Wanderer became gradually aware of her trembling hands under the sheet. Tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks.

All she could see in her mind was her husband, that kind smile on his face that radiated joy, that same smile she'd first noticed when she met him. She could picture him the day Shaun was born as they held him closely in the delivery room, wondering to themselves what kind of person their baby would grow up to be. Nate had told her that he was sure their son would grow up to do great things; "how couldn't he, having a mother like you?" Exhausted, she'd rolled her eyes at her husband.

" _Says the great American war hero," she had quipped._

" _Now, I wouldn't say hero," he'd said, grinning giddily again as Shaun cooed in his sleep._

Never could she imagined that day what was to come, the blow that fate would deal to her family.

"And here I am," Father finished. "Raised by the Institute, and now its leader."

She turned her attention back to her son where he sat, realizing he was a complete stranger to her. A pang of grief struck her as she realized she had missed out on nearly his entire life. Perhaps she was selfish, perhaps she should be grateful that she had found him at last, but the only thing she could feel was regret. The Institute had stolen her son, her family, her motherhood right from under her.

"It's not right," she whispered, vision blurring with tears. "They took you from me. You're a prisoner."

Father shook his head, giving a sigh. "To you, that would seem true, I'm sure. But, to the Institute… it made all the sense in the world."

"To steal a child from his mother? Where is the sense in that?" she asked him.

"The truth is," began Father, sliding his chair closer to her bed, looming over her in a way that was unsettling. "This goes far beyond you, or I. Beyond our… blood relations." Wanderer squinted her eyes at his words, but stayed silent.

"In 2227, the year I was retrieved from the Vault, the Institute had made great strides in synth production. But it was never enough. Scientific curiosity, and the goal of perfection, drove them ever onward. What they wanted was… the perfect machine. So, they followed the best example thus far- the human being. Walking, talking, fully articulate… capable of anything."

"I don't… what did that have to do with you? With us?"

"You see, the Institute endeavored to create synthetic organics. The most logical starting point, of course, was human DNA."

"Your DNA?" She finished for him, frowning. Father nodded.

"Yes, my DNA. It was difficult for the Institute to find suitable DNA. In this… wasteland… radiation affected everyone. Members of the Institute had been exposed to the corruption, and so another source was necessary. After discovering records from Vault 111, the Institute found me. An infant, frozen in time, protected from the radiation induced mutations that had crept into every other human cell in the Commonwealth."

"I was exactly what they needed, you see. And so, it was my DNA that became the basis of the synthetic organics used to create every human-like synth you see today."

"So the Institute is, doing what, preserving humanity with the synths?" she asked, trying to work it all out in her head, still sluggish from sleep.

" _Redefining_ humanity," Father corrected, a peculiar look in his eye. "I am their Father. Through science, we are family. The synths, me… and you."

The shaking of her hands had worsened considerably. Of all the answers she could have received, why this?

"You must have questions. Please, anything I can say to help you understand."

Wanderer searched her son's eyes. She had many questions indeed. Who had raised him? Was he raised by a nurse, or did he have a parental figure at all? Who had been there throughout the years to care for him? What was he like, not as a scientist, but as a person? She was almost scared of the answers she would receive.

She took a deep breath. For the first time since she'd arrived at the Institute, she thought about the other reason she was here. Of course, she had come with the intention of searching for her son, but it was the Railroad that had helped her get here.

"What's the point of all this, Shaun? Why does the Institute need to… _redefine_ humanity? Right now, it just seems like you're trying to terrorize the innocent people that live aboveground. Why?"

At her words, Shaun scoffed. She frowned.

"What?" she asked again.

"Do not pretend that this new Commonwealth can compare to the world before the war. The people aboveground are… desperate. While they squabble over their vices, the Institute pursues knowledge. We are humanity's last hope- you must realize that."

"But the people aboveground are still people," she challenged. "You're claiming the moral high ground, but then you steal people and replace them with synths. _Why?"_

Father's expression was almost that of disappointment.

"I'll admit that in our search for progress, there have been… sacrifices. However, these sacrifices have been made for the good of all humanity, and the future of our species. The obstacles we face ensure than humankind will continue to go on. Is there anything nobler than that?"

At his words, Wanderer couldn't help but remember when she'd been assigned to read Machiavelli when she was in college.

"I see you are unhappy with this sentiment," Father said, noticing her soured expression. "I can assure you that the Institute is not evil like you have been led to believe on the surface. I should remind you that the world is not black and white- the truth is, there is a gray area. The position of deciding what is best for humanity's survival has fallen to me, and it has not been an easy job. As a leader, I have made difficult decisions. I hope in time that you will come to understand. However… I did not wish to discuss politics with you here, today."

She raised a brow at him, staying silent. The more he talked, the more she felt as if she was going to erupt in anger- not exactly what she'd had in mind after finally being reunited with her son. So, she said nothing.

After a considerable amount of awkward silence, he continued. "I wish to discuss your future… hopefully, here with the Institute. I do not wish to be presumptuous but… it is good, to meet you at last. I believe you would fit in well here."

His words were like a slap in the face. Join the Institute, the very organization she'd been fighting against since she had awoken in this hellhole? She opened her mouth to oppose the idea, but he held up a hand to silence her. "Please, mother. I know this must be difficult. From the lies you've heard on the surface, you have likely been misinformed about what it is we do here. Just give the Institute a chance, a single chance, that's all I ask."

Wanderer frowned. The better part of her wanted to deny him, but she couldn't deny her curiosity. Besides, she knew exactly what Desdemona would say- that she was of more use on the inside. She was an Agent, and she had a job to do.

Father took her silence as acceptance. He stood and left, stopping to linger in the doorway.

"I would like you to meet some of my department heads when you're feeling well enough. They will be delighted to meet you, and show you the nature of our work here, in the Institute."

When he left the room, she felt disheartened. Decades had passed since they'd last been together, and yet the Institute was the only thing that they had talked about. She supposed she should feel lucky that she'd finally found her son, but their meeting had been… vastly different from every scenario she'd imagined.

She shut her eyes and tried to ease the tension in her shoulders until she fell asleep.

Two weeks after Wanderer's disappearance, Deacon set out for Sanctuary to give everyone the news. Piper, Nick, and a couple of others knew of Wanderer's mission and they'd decided to wait there for her return, hopefully with her son in tow. MacCready, having a son of his own just a few years younger than Shaun, was eager to meet the little guy, and so had Deacon been, if he was being honest with himself.

He wasn't very eager about bringing them the news. He knew how much of a blow it would be to them, and he didn't like to be put in such a vulnerable position. Ever since he'd befriended Wanderer, he found himself put in positions he hadn't been in in years, having a real friend- that in itself was unusual. 'Friends' were his contacts and informants, and mutual understandings went only as far as they needed to for him to get his job done.

Before he met her, he had given himself completely to the Railroad. Mind, soul, and even body, often going under the knife to preserve his clandestine ways. Now? He felt like a person again. A real goddamned person. Hell, she probably hadn't even known how much he treasured their friendship, and now she never would.

It was around midday when he finally reached Sanctuary. Good old Sanctuary Hills, unofficial headquarters for the Minutemen, second in fortification only to the Castle. She'd rebuilt the place practically from the ground up, and it was now a thriving community, nearly unrecognizable from the barren ghost town it had once been.

He himself had quite a bit of history with the place; years ago, he had wondered why it was completely abandoned. A spot like that could've been perfect for a raider gang or something worse to set up shop. And yet, the only thing he'd found was a dinged up Mr. Handy, an old ghoul in a trench coat, and a couple of bloatflies.

That's how he'd found the Vault, way back before she'd even woken from being a living ice cube. He'd known even then that something about that Vault was going to lead to something big. But that was a long story that no longer mattered, now.

Of course, he was disguised when he entered the settlement, wearing some shabby farmer's coat and a hat. Preston, who was standing guard by the worn looking Sanctuary Hills sign, gave him a curt nod and waved Deacon inside. The once-abandoned neighborhood now had a restaurant, several trade spots, a water purification center, and the best damn bar this side of the Charles. He passed farmers, traders, guards, and he smirked to himself. She really had been a perfect fit for the Railroad. In the short time that she'd been in this new world, she'd left her own legacy. The threat of the Institute was still omnipresent, but at least people were beginning to band together for once.

Hopefully, it would last without her there to ensure its survival.

As he walked along the road, he stopped in front of the only house in the neighborhood that still seemed as if it had been untouched since the bombs dropped. Wanderer's old house, where she'd moved 200 years ago with dreams of starting a family. It was the only thing in Sanctuary that hadn't been repurposed, from the rusted mailbox to the caved ceilings, and everyone in town knew not to go inside out of respect for the General.

He'd thought once to ask if she ever thought she'd be able to go inside, but he'd thought better of the question. She would find nothing but ghosts there, they both knew that. Was she just another ghost now, haunting the remains of her old home? It sure as hell looked like how he imagined a haunted house would.

Deacon looked at the broken, rusted mailbox. _Farren,_ he could just make out on the side, painted in bright rounded letters all those years ago, now worn and weathered from age.

Unsurprisingly, the coward in him took over. He needed to tell her friends that it was very likely Wanderer was dead, but that didn't mean he couldn't put it off for a little while longer.

Before anyone could catch a glimpse of him, Deacon darted behind the house and began the short ascent up the hill, retracing the steps that her terrified neighbors had taken in fear on that fateful morning. He wondered often what life had been like back then, what it felt like not to live in fear of radiation and raiders and super mutants and nuclear explosions every goddamn day of your life. And then, after all of that, what must it have been like to have nuclear war on your front doorstop, after worrying about gas prices, or a meeting at work, or which daycare would be best for the rugrats. Hell, talk about a nuclear transition.

When Deacon reached the top of the hill, he didn't stop to linger there. He took note of the Vault entrance, untouched since she'd emerged aboveground last October. He headed west, to a spot with which he was very familiar. A small alcove atop the small hill, overlooked the entrance to the Vault. A chair and a table were set up, along with a few planks to hold together a makeshift tent and a barrier that would keep whoever sat there completely hidden. Across the barrier was a familiar symbol- the railsign for 'Ally'. When he'd last been there, he'd been forced to leave in a hurry, so there was still a can of water and a half-burned candle on the table, extinguished hurriedly by his thumb so long ago.

After all, it had been a shock to see her stepping from the Vault, bright blue jumpsuit and all. That was the first time he'd ever laid eyes on Monica Farren, at the same time she'd laid eyes on what remained of her world.

Back in the day, before synths had become as prevalent as they were now, the Railroad had gathered every bit of intel they could on the Institute and stored it in the archives, now kept safe by PAM. Stories, eyewitness accounts, sightings- everything. The Institute had always had the upper hand, and it wasn't a farfetched idea to learn everything he could to look for a weakness. Anything that could possibly give him a lead, he pored over in detail. That's when he'd struck oil.

When researching possible Institute sightings throughout the years- he had found one that caught his attention. It was one of the oldest accounts they had, the sighting having been about 50 years prior- and it hadn't been backed up by any other witnesses, already detracting from the credibility of the account.

An anonymous source had claimed that they saw suspicious figures around Vault 111 around the year 2228. Whether it was the Institute or not was unclear, but the account still snagged his attention. Who would want anything to do with an abandoned Vault? Raiders and looters- sure, but the witness only described three figures, noting that only one of them carried a weapon. That seemed to cross raiders off the list, but why that Vault? He was able to scrounge up some Vault-Tec data and cross-referenced it with the Railroad's information. In what seemed like an unusual stroke of luck, he had found a list of subjects kept on ice.

 _C1: Empty_

 _C2: Ethel Callahan_

 _C3: Robert Callahan_

 _C4: Roy Able_

 _C5: Beatrice Able_

 _C6: Nate Farren and Shaun Farren_

 _C7: Monica Farren_

 _C8: Frederick Russell_

His name had instantly found the only pod with two names: Nate and Shaun Farren. Deacon had deduced that there was an infant or at least a small child in pod C6, as that seemed the only reason for having two people in one pod.

A year after Deacon began his research, he heard another account of Institute activity near the Vault, though this one was much less detailed than the first lead, which was by all rights a dead end. Still- it strengthened his lead. Desdemona had expressed to him that there was much more viable information to use, but Deacon couldn't shake the feeling that he was onto something. So, he camped out by the Vault for the better part of a year, watching the Vault entrance constantly, never even knowing what it was he was looking for. There were several times when he wondered if he'd finally gone off the deep end. However, on October 23rd of 2287, his hours upon hours of research were rewarded as soon as he saw her for the first time.

Deacon remembered looking for any sign of the Institute, anything that seemed out of place or unusual. He barely slept and he barely ate, not wanting to miss anything. Looking back on it, he wasn't sure what he'd have done if she hadn't left the Vault. Would he still be sitting here at that post, to this day? Would he have waited for two years? Five? Ten?

He had almost fallen off his chair that day when he heard the loud screech of rusted metal grating against metal. The sound of that Vault opening had reverberated through the wasteland so loudly, he wouldn't have been able to miss it from a mile away.

Imagining the sound of the Vault opening made his head ache. He sat at the abandoned chair to rub his temples, wondering if all of his effort had been wasted. God, he could still hear the sound of the Vault lift in his head- it was like it was opening again, right here, right now. Ridiculous.

Deacon snapped his eyes open. Sure enough, the Vault lift had been powered back to life and was descending, just like it had the day she'd left.

"This is taking déjà vu a bit too far," he grumbled, taking a second look. His eyes were not playing a trick on him. Who would be leaving the Vault, now? Wanderer had said that she was the sole survivor- everyone else inside was supposed to be dead.

She had forgotten what it felt like to wear clean clothes… real, actual clean clothes. And hot showers. Wanderer and Sturges had rigged up their own water system in Sanctuary and they had been able to design functional showers, but there wasn't much room for temperature modulation. Plus, the water pressure was horrible, but it had still been better than what they'd had before, which was scrubbing yourself with a stone in a rad-infested river.

And the food, by God, the food. Everything she'd eaten in the Commonwealth more or less tasted like dirt. The food in the Institute was much nicer, but the people eating it were the blandest thing by far.

Everyone in the Institute had a job to do. That was well enough, but there seemed to be very little in the way of… well, entertainment. Or hobbies, even. All of these people lived in relative comfort and yet, nobody did anything but work. If you weren't in a lab, you were studying. Even the children seemed rigidly austere. Nothing in the Institute existed for the sake of existing- everything had a purpose. The most artistic or creative thing she could think of to come from the Institute was the Classical Radio station, and even that was for broadcasting the waves used by the molecular relay. If something was not necessary, it was cut, end of story.

Generally, Wanderer considered herself to have a broad appreciation for knowledge and education, but this was something else. Every human she met was a scientist, every synth was a servant, and nearly every room was a laboratory.

As per Shaun's request, she had gone around and introduced herself to a couple of the residents. The scientists were either genuinely pleased to meet her and greeted her with respect, or they showed obvious disdain towards her. Many seemed to think themselves above her, making it very clear by the way they spoke to her as if she was a child. Either way, it was time consuming, as almost every scientist she met was very eager to explain their work to her and gauge her opinion on what they did.

Dr. Li installed a courser chip on her Pip-Boy, giving her full Institute access, meaning Wanderer was officially an inside agent. When she was in Advanced Systems, she caught a glimpse of the Synth version of Shaun, the boy she'd seen in Kellogg's memories. He was in another glass-walled cell, sat on the ground, piecing together a jigsaw puzzle.

She felt a pang in her heart when she saw him, and left quickly.

After introducing herself to all the directors, she made her way back to Father's quarters. She had to ask a Synth servant how to find the room, since every given hall and door and room looked more or less, the same. He was reading something, seated on a chair when she entered, ever the image of composure.

Father looked up at her and smiled. "Well, mother? Now that you've had a chance to see the Institute for yourself, what do you think?"

Wanderer frowned at the question. If she was being honest with herself, she didn't know what she thought.

"It seems like the Institute has no shortage of impressive technology. Why not use it to help people, instead of keeping them in fear?"

Shaun scoffed. "While your sentiments about saving the people aboveground are noble, there is no point in repairing what is irreparable. Besides, we are helping them. The Institute is all that is left of civilized, educated society. In the long run, we are doing what is best, here."

She tried to read his eyes, but she found them impassive. Despite everything she'd seen here, Wanderer desperately wanted to keep an open mind- to find some good in her son. He had to know on some level what he was doing, how many lives he was throwing away for no good reason.

He spoke again, before she could say something else. "In any case, it sounds like you are trying to keep an open mind. Yes, we have accomplished many scientific feats over the years, the molecular relay being only one of many. I have had quarters arranged for you, and you are free to leave or return to the Institute as you see fit. I'd very much like for the Institute to be… well, to be your home."

His words froze her to the spot. As much as she knew that she shouldn't let him manipulate her, she couldn't help but think on his words.

Wasn't this just what she had wanted? To live in peace with her son, without monsters or radiation? What reason would he have for manipulating her, anyway? Perhaps Shaun was telling her the truth.

Wanderer rubbed her temples. This was all just too confusing.

Later that evening, she lied in her bed, lost in thought. The room she had been given was comfortable, with a little more thoughtful flair than the rest of the Institute seemed to possess. There were all the necessities- her own shower, a toilet, a bed, dressers. Scattered throughout the room were a couple of old world things: a bright vase, a baseball glove, some framed pictures, even a couple packs of cigarettes. Whoever had set the room up for her must have thought that such décor would have made her feel more at home. Truthfully, they just clashed with the rest of the room, and reminded her where she really was.

They had of course, supplied her with her own Institute jumpers, so she could fit in with the rest of them. Lucky for her (or lucky for Desdemona) they had also set her room up with a terminal. Nervously, she toyed with the holotape she had been given to call Patriot. The tape was encrypted with a message for Patriot's eyes only that she was supposed to upload to the Institute's mainframe. She wasn't sure what to expect when she jacked the holotape inside of the terminal. Her mother's instincts screamed at her not to go against the only family she had left, but this was her mission. No matter how broken her life felt, she still had a duty to the Synths.

She slipped the tape inside.

 _Transmitting $TTomKey…_

 _Symmetric key found…_

 _Handshake successful._

 _Command?_

 _[Message from Tom]_

 _[Copy encrypted message]_

As per Tom's instructions, she copied the message and uploaded it to the mainframe. The terminal displayed a message, reading that the message had been copied successfully. She wasn't sure how long it would be until this Patriot replied, so she crawled into bed.

In the morning, she rolled over and groggily opened her eyes when the alarm went off. She hadn't even set it, someone must have preset the damn thing before she'd even been in here. The clock read 7:00 A.M., and she scurried off the bed and back to the terminal to check for a response.

Sure enough, a new message had appeared.

[ _Read "UrgentReply001"]_

Hastily, she selected the message and scanned its contents.

 _Acknowledged. Meet at the Advanced Systems maintenance room._

Wasting no time, she took a quick shower, and pulled on one of the jumpers she'd found in the drawer. She grabbed a bite to eat at the dining area before heading to Advanced Systems, not wanting to arouse any suspicions by seeming like she was in a hurry to get somewhere. The synth behind the counter had offered her some kind of salad, which she ate quickly.

She tried to walk as if she wasn't headed somewhere with a purpose, and instead exploring. All the while, Wanderer sought out the rendezvous point. She found the entrance to the maintenance room in a small nook near the main entrance. With a stealthy glance to ensure she was not being watched or followed, she slipped inside.

Patriot was a wide-eyed young man who seemed to have a permanent expression of bewilderment on his face. Liam Binet- she recognized him from the Robotics lab she'd visited. She'd overheard him having an argument with someone but wasn't able to focus on what they were saying, as she watched new synths assembled bone by bone, muscle by muscle.

"Hey," he said quickly when she entered the small closet. "It's me. So, you're the one who sent the encrypted message," he noted, raising a brow. "How did you even do that? I wasn't sure anyone on the surface would have a chance to crack Trinity. You know, the encryption algorithm," he added hastily.

Wanderer smirked to herself. The people down here really did think everyone on the surface were a bunch of morons who didn't know their ass from a cryptosystem.

Actually, on second thought, with some of the people up there, it was probably questionable.

"I know some people on the surface. A friend of mine cracked your encryption. Tinker Tom is his name," she said.

"He must have had some serious hardware to pull that off," Liam said, eyes widening even further. "Wow. Your message was only one word. "Friend." What did you mean by that?"

"I was tasked by the Railroad to contact someone they call 'Patriot'. That would be you," she replied, nodding towards Liam.

"Wait… the Railroad? As in, _the Railroad?"_

"Yes, the Railroad. We help synths, just like you. From what I hear, the Railroad owes you a great deal."

If the guy had been surprised before, then now he was simply blown away. "Wait, really? I… I kept sending synths to the surface hoping someone would help them. I had hoped the Railroad got to some of them, but I never knew for certain."

"I'm curious," Wanderer mused. "How did you help them escape, anyway? Shaun tells me that the molecular relay is the only way in and out of this place, and that seems like it would be fairly guarded."

"Simple. Through hacking," Liam said, looking pleased with himself. "The SRB decided which synths get to relay to and from the surface. But a forged work order from, let's say… BioScience can get a hand-picked synth on surface detail. And as it turns out, the Railroad was waiting for them. Wow."

"Pretty clever," she agreed.

"Now, hold on a second," said Liam, the workings of a plan behind his eyes. "With you in the picture, I have this idea. To rescue a lot of synths at once!"

"That sounds great," Wanderer agreed, a bit taken aback by his sudden outburst. "How would we do something like that?"

"Hmm… I need to figure something out before we discuss anything. I'll arrange for us to meet sometime soon to figure out a plan. Don't mention this to anybody, of course." With that, he rushed past her and left the maintenance room.

Well, that was a lot of good news for Desdemona, Wanderer thought. She thought their Patriot was a good guy, maybe a little eccentric but being in the Railroad, she was used to interesting personalities. Through all the doubt she'd felt the past few days, this felt like a jolt back to reality. The synths were truly enslaved here, and now she had seen it for herself.

Leaving the Advanced Systems area, Wanderer sighed to herself. She now had the information that Desdemona needed, and she knew that she had to return to the surface sometime. She really didn't know how she would face her comrades after this, how she would react if someone saw her approaching without her young boy in tow. How would they react when she told them the full story? Should she even _tell_ them the full story? How long had she even been gone, anyway?

Wanderer checked her Pip-Boy, and paled when she read the date. How had it already been two weeks? It had felt like mere days. The others probably thought something horrible had happened. What about Deacon?

The thought of him chilled her. He had acted so strangely when she'd left for the Institute, she hadn't been able to read him. It wasn't particularly unusual to not know what he was thinking, thanks to those damn sunglasses, but he'd seemed weirder than usual. Wanderer didn't know how long exactly, but she knew that Deacon had been chasing the Institute for a long time. From what she gathered, the molecular relay had been the closest damn thing to an Institute infiltration that the Railroad had ever had, it would make sense that he'd be feeling on edge.

She stopped a courser in the hall to ask for instructions in using the courser chip to relay wherever she wanted. It was a simple as inputting a location on her Pip-Boy map and selecting a molecular relay option.

After going back to her quarters and getting back into the clothes she was wearing when she arrived, she stared at the map on her Pip-Boy. Truthfully, she had no idea where she should go. Back to the Island? Would it be too risky to relay directly to Old North Church? Would the Institute be able to track where she went? The thought was unsettling.

After several moments of deliberation, she selected 'Vault 111' and the world ripped in two.


	3. Chapter 3

Deacon had seen some weird shit, but this time, he almost couldn't believe his eyes.

It was her. She, his former companion that was supposed to be dead, was standing there, on the Vault platform, wearing the same set of clothes he'd last seen her in just over two weeks ago.

"Jesus. I knew I would go off the deep end one day," he muttered to himself. This couldn't be real. A dream? He pinched the back of his hand, a habit he'd developed to pull himself from a dream when… well, when shit got too real.

Before he could stop himself, he moved in her direction. She was just standing there, on the lift, looking at the horizon over Sanctuary Hills, the same dreadful view she'd been greeted with after waking up from her icebox. The same barren land, the same dilapidated structures, the same blue sky. She was just watching the horizon as the sun gradually slipped lower into the sky, a strange gloom settled around her.

Deacon stopped. He'd had enough nightmares to know how to pull himself out of a dream state, and this was as real as it got.

Still the possibility of him going off the deep end, though. He composed himself before she could see him in such a state.

"Hey, there."

Wanderer turned nimbly to see him standing there, leaning casually against a large rusted crate, as if everything was completely normal. His expression was completely neutral, the shades concealing all hint of emotion. Skeletons littered the ground around them, a reminder of that day the world as it had been met its end- the freshest memory in her mind.

She wiped the tears that had been threatening to spill from her eyes and, almost against her will, broke out into a wide smile when she saw him. The movement didn't go unnoticed, on his part. He pushed himself off the side of the crate with his heel and sidled towards her.

"Do you have some secret superpower for following me, or something? That would explain a lot," she said, her sudden smile slowly receding back into the melancholy expression that seemed to dominate these days.

"Aww, who told you? You weren't supposed to know that! Now my cover is blown," he joked. Truthfully, that statement held more truth than she even knew. He couldn't help but to take in her appearance, searching for some clue of what she'd been through these past two weeks.

Her wavy blonde hair was clean, cleaner than he'd ever seen it, the kind of clean you just didn't see out here in the wasteland. Her clothes were a little ragged, but no more ragged than the day she'd stepped into the teleporter. She still had her trademark Pip-Boy locked around her wrist and the .44 magnum holstered to her waist. Something else was different, though- the fire and determination in her eyes that he'd always admired, seemed to have waned.

"See? You aren't so tricky, after all, D."

"That's what you think, Wanda. I've got all kinds of tricks up my sleeve, just you wait."

He stopped a few inches from her, remaining far enough to give her space.

She shook her head and didn't reply, the momentary silence hanging in the air between them. He could tell something was wrong.

She said nothing, turning back around to stare out towards Sanctuary. Deacon had caught her off-guard, and she hadn't yet planned what she would tell anybody, let alone him. Especially him.

All her friends had worked so hard to get her to the Institute in hopes that she would reunite with her baby boy, and now, what could she tell them? She couldn't bear to tell them that the boy she'd been searching for, for so many months now, was the one responsible for the fear that now lingered all across the Commonwealth. Her son was responsible for the lost innocents in the night, the hatred towards synths, the massacred safehouses, and likely much more that she wasn't even aware of. The thought was sickening.

"Thought I lost you there for a bit," he said carefully, testing the waters. Considering that she didn't have her son in tow like she had hoped, it was safe to assume that whatever she'd found in the Institute hadn't been what she was expecting. "Glory's been having to run all the big ops alone, she's been having entirely too much fun. She and that minigun are a match made in heaven."

"My son is gone," Wanderer blurted out. And wasn't it the truth, in a way? This man, this… Father, was a stranger to her. If the Railroad had any idea that her son was the leader of the Institute, would they even allow her to keep her role as an agent? She was too much of a liability, even she knew that. If- no, when she was forced to choose between Shaun and the Railroad, even she wasn't sure of what she would choose. It was clear that she would eventually need to make such a decision, and there didn't seem to be any escaping it.

Besides, Deacon had lied to her more times than she could count. Honesty isn't always the best policy- that's what he was always saying. He didn't need to know the truth- nobody did.

She looked back up at him, almost hoping in some way for words of comfort that she knew wouldn't come. Not in the way she needed, anyway. Nate would have been the one to hold her and cry with her, but her husband was no longer there to fill that role. All that was left of him was a frozen corpse, bullet wound still perfectly preserved in his chest, not a hair out of place. He hadn't changed since the day she'd woken up, she thought, the image of his body still fresh in her mind.

"Shit. I'm sorry."

Wanderer let out a long sigh, and for a while, neither of them said a thing. She was grateful he didn't ask about Patriot just yet. It must have been difficult- she gathered he'd devoted his entire life to fighting the Institute, and yet he didn't try to demand what she'd learned or what the Railroad's next strategy should be. The gesture was a small one that would go unnoticed to another, but it was meaningful to her.

After the sky had grown dark, Wanderer turned to the old footpath and began the short sloping trek down to Sanctuary, Deacon a few feet behind. She paused when she reached the small bridge, seeing Preston patrolling on the streets. She didn't have the emotional capacity to be a Railroad agent right now, or even the General of the Minutemen. She just wanted to be a grieving mother, for one night.

After sending him a pleading look, Deacon seemed to understand. If he knew anything, he knew how to hide, and he understood the need to hide. Wanderer didn't know much about his life, but something about him seemed to hint that he'd been hiding for a long, long time. He rummaged around for a moment, producing a worn-looking ushanka hat and a pair of shades from seemingly nowhere. Wanderer reached out a hand to take them from him, but he had already jammed the hat onto her head and slid the sunglasses on, as if she were a child too inept to dress herself.

Before Wanderer could berate him for it, Deacon's hand had found hers and she found herself being pulled into the crowded (by nuclear wasteland standards) Sanctuary road towards the small home she'd built for herself near the edge of town. Unsurprisingly, thanks to Deacon's expertise, the ragtag duo didn't attract any of the curious stares that Wanderer was used to receiving. It was a pleasant change.

The small cabin was plain and unassuming- only a few of the Minutemen higher-ups including Preston knew that it was where the General resided, so the two didn't draw any attention upon entering. As soon as Deacon had closed the door behind them, Wanderer immediately felt some of the tension lift from her shoulders. She moved to sit down on the faded leather couch by the door, while Deacon proceeded to the kitchen area she'd set up in the back of the living area. She pulled off her coat and untied the laces on her boots, body overcome with aches.

The cabin was shabby and rustic at best, but it still felt more like a home than that white, sterile bedroom she'd been given access to in the Institute. She had a couple of worn-looking paintings on the wall accompanied by a dirtied American flag. A couple of comics she had collected were shelved by the counter in the living area. There were also a couple of vases that were dingy enough to match the rest of the cabin. Yes, she much preferred this to her Institute quarters.

"What's for supper, Wanda?" he asked, rummaging through her makeshift pantry.

"What?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of confusion.

" _Supper._ You know, the meal that's after lunch and before your midnight snack? What'll it be?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, D. Now some _dinner_ ," she teased, placing emphasis on the word, "that I would be up for." She heard a chuckle from the kitchen, the corners of her lips twitching in response.

"What are you in the mood for? I have quite the spread over here- Blamco Mac 'n Cheese, Cram, you name it," he called.

"What, No prime rib? You're a terrible host, D."

"This is your house, need I remind you. Mirelurk steak with salsa is the closest I've got."

Their silly nonsense could carry on for hours, if they weren't eventually interrupted by the real world. Eventually, he brought over a box of Fancy Lads, much to her delight.

"You know," started Deacon, glancing at the sugar dusting from one of the cakes that had made its way onto her cheek, "I say we should compromise."

Wanderer glanced up at him curiously, fishing in the box for another cake.

"You know, supper versus dinner? How about 'dipper'? Or, maybe 'sinner'?"

At 'Sinner,' she had to suppress a snort. "No, no, those are too easy. It needs to be unique, something that doesn't already have meaning," she said, squinting her eyes in mock contemplation. "Yes, it must be 'dupper,' no doubt in my mind," she answered him, reclining back into the sofa.

"Wow, not even a single doubt?"

At her defiant shake of the head, he declared, "Dupper it is, then."

Wanderer rolled her eyes. "Anything to drink back there?"

"Think I saw a bottle of wine somewhere," Deacon answered, hopping to his feet again to fetch said bottle. She let out a sigh when he left the room, her mind spinning. It was thoughtful of him to joke around with her and not press her for information, but in a way, their dancing around the subject was becoming a bit nerve-wracking. She didn't much want to talk about it at all, but she couldn't avoid the conversation forever. Her mind spun with the possibilities of what was to come if she were to stay with the Railroad. She couldn't imagine betraying the people she'd grown close with, Deacon included. Wanderer believed in what the Railroad stood for, without a doubt, but she didn't want to be the one to fight her own son.

Maybe she could tell Desdemona what she'd learned, and then sit the rest out. She'd already gained valuable intel and established contact with Patriot- the Railroad could take it from there. Desdemona would understand, and so would Deacon.

'No,' cried the voice in the back of her mind. She was the only one who could carry out the rest of this mission, for she was the only outsider who now had free access to the Institute. It was precisely because of her connection to Shaun, that it _had_ to be her. In some sick way, she almost wished she hadn't found her son at last, as the reality of the situation was much worse than she'd anticipated.

Frowning, Wanderer pushed the thought away. No, she'd found her son, and she had a chance to mend the bond that the Institute and years of cryogenic stasis had severed. There had to be another way to do this. Shaun would have to listen to her if she reasoned with him, right? She was his mother, he had to.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Deacon returned, the bottle in one hand, and a couple of chipped cups in another. "Here we go," he told her with a grin. "Falmouth Winery Merlot, vintage 2060."

She held out her hand and he gave her a cup, pouring her a healthy amount and doing the same for himself. Wanderer didn't see him drink very often- only when he was trying to pick up intel at a bar. She knew from experience that bars were one of his favorite spots to learn secrets from inebriates, and it would be suspicious if he didn't have a drink as well. All part of the game. Of course, she caught him one such time watering his drink down so he could still learn everything he needed to without suffering the same loss of inhibitions as his informants.

Deacon set the bottle aside on the table and raised his glass. "To dupper," he said, before clinking his cup gently against hers.

The bitter taste of the wine disagreed with the lingering sugar on her tongue, but she drank anyway. It was a funny combination, vintage Merlot and Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, one that her old self would have laughed at, with all her soft prewar sensibilities, refined palate and all. As it turns out, there unfortunately wasn't much room for preference in a nuclear wasteland.

Despite his sunglasses, Wanderer could feel Deacon's eyes on her. She knew that he was watching, waiting for the opportunity where she'd be loose enough to talk. He had taught her the trick, after all, she knew how to recognize it. Patience and persistence would wear down any target, like the waves of water beating against the earth. Water waits, and waits, eventually overcoming any obstacle. Deacon followed an extremely similar philosophy.

She would play along. Why not?

A few inches away from Wanderer, he sat beside her on the sofa, matching her reclined state with his own casual pose. Facing her from the side, his right arm propped himself up.

She mimicked his pose, narrowing the distance between them. Such behavior was normal, for the duo.

"So," Wanderer drawled, taking another sip from her drink. "What have you been up to these past few weeks? Didn't have too much fun without me, I hope." She caught a slight raise of his brow, but the action was mostly concealed by his sunglasses. She had always suspected that the shades were key in maintaining his poker face.

"Of course not," Deacon started. "You _are_ the fun. I've had nothing but long, lazy, dull days for the past two weeks. I didn't even get to massacre anything."

"Why not?"

"Well, believe it or not Wanda, before I met you, I'd go _days_ without massacring a bunch of things. Weeks, even. Honest!" he added at her dubious expression.

"That doesn't sound like very much fun, D. You must have lived quite a dull life, before you met me."

The corner of his mouth twitched a little. "Well, travelling with you ain't dull, I'll say that much."

She rolled her eyes. "Is that flattery, I hear?"

"Not a chance," he said with a sly grin.

She heard a familiar, eerie rumble from outside, forcing her attention away from him. She stood and crossed the room to peer out from her small window near the door. Sure enough, ominous green storm clouds lingered on the dark horizon. Across the street, Wanderer noticed some of her settlers ushering others inside, distributing protective masks and water along the way.

She knew that she should probably be out there helping the settlers prepare, but the sight brought a smile to her face. If kindness had been rare before the bombs fell, it was most certainly unheard of now. That wasn't to say that there weren't kind people, but resources were so scarce that the average Commonwealth citizen had no choice but to put themselves or their family first. Nearly everyone was on some level of desperation- meaning acts of kindness were few and far in between. This community she had built with the help of her friends and the Minutemen proved that humans could still be selfless, here in this wasteland.

Maybe that's why so many in the Commonwealth were quick to dismiss the existence of the Railroad. To think that a group of people were out there, living in secret and risking everything to fight the Institute? And to save synths, who arguably weren't as real or deserving of freedom as humans? Who would do such a thing, and to what end?

Wanderer understood why many didn't sympathize with the Railroad, especially on the subject of synth freedom. Why worry about some robot that thinks it's a person while your family is just barely scraping by, especially when that robot might be there to kidnap or kill you or steal your belongings? It was much easier to hide and do your best to get by, without putting yourself in direct opposition to the Institute by voicing support for the Railroad. It proved that the people of the Commonwealth were living in constant fear under the shadow of the Institute.

But these people were helping each other. She remembered how Shaun had dismissed the people aboveground as savages- petty and violent, killing each other for scraps of food. No, he was wrong. These people had a home, and they were willing to help defend it, and each other. He just needed to see in the Commonwealth what she saw, and he would understand.

"Oh, Jesus," she whispered, as an ominous bright green flash of lighting lit up the street, much brighter and more intense than their usual radiation storms. It was going to be a big one.

"You called?" Deacon asked, sidling over to her side. "Just Deacon is fine, by the way."

"Alright, Just Deacon," Wanderer mumbled back, her eyes fixed on the storm clouds.

"Radstorm, huh? I always wanted to grow another head. Or a third foot out of my stomach, or something…"

"You're strange enough with only one head and two feet," Wanderer complained.

"Ouch," he said, pouting. "Well, look on the bright side. Since we're now stuck in here for what may be a while, we have lots of time to talk. You know, get to know each other a little?"

"Get to know each other, huh? I've been travelling with you for months, I don't think I'm ever going to 'get to know you' at this point."

"Come on Wanda, it'll be fun. Okay, so you ask me a question, then I ask you, and so on."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, seeing through his lie. In no world that she'd known Deacon would he willingly offer up information about his personal life. He was obviously trying to get information out of her in turn.

They sat back down on the sofa, popping some Rad-X and pouring some more wine. Wanda kicked her feet up on the small coffee table, and Deacon crossed his legs. "You ask first," he told her, his face deadpan. It was a game, and nothing more than that, she figured. Obviously, he'd be lying through his teeth at any opportunity, and would want her to do the same.

One of his weird training exercises, probably. She often found herself the mentee with him along, anyway.

"Me first? Alright, give me a second… Okay, how do you know so much about the Old World? You made a joke about Proust a few weeks ago, I remember. Most people in my time didn't read Proust, let alone out here, where almost everything is destroyed. Literature isn't exactly a priority anymore."

Deacon nodded thoughtfully at her question. "Good one, Wanda, but I'm afraid the answer isn't as interesting as you're hoping. You wouldn't know this, but, usually before we have someone join Railroad HQ, we'll have them tested in a couple different ways. Weirdly enough, we'll have recruits read some form of literature and then quiz them for comprehension. It sounds strange, but we need good minds back at HQ, people who know their ass from a danger railsign from an unabridged copy of _War and Peace_. It actually has turned out to be a fairly reliable test, anyone who can even read something like Proust out here is a rarity, and we want the best of the best. The literacy rate isn't so high these days. PAM has a collection of options that she can copy onto a holotape for anyone we think might be a good fit for HQ."

She maintained a straight face throughout his tale but at his mention of PAM, her thoughtful frown faltered slightly into a crooked grin. "So, what, PAM is not only an assaultron, a tactician, but a librarian too? Who would've thought?"

"Crazy, right? PAM prefers the title of 'archivist,' though. No wonder the Brotherhood wants to take us out. Welcome to the Railroad- saving synths as well as the classics."

She rolled her eyes. "It's a noble pursuit, I suppose. I'm sure the Brotherhood prioritizes weird tech over classic literature."

Deacon just shrugged. Brotherhood of Steel wasn't his favorite conversation topic, these days.

"Okay, D… so why didn't I have to take this initiation test, as you put it?" she asked with a sideways glance. He didn't hesitate to keep it going.

"Well, as I'm sure you're aware, the circumstances of your initiation were a little different than usual. As I told you that day when you stumbled into our little hideout in the church: we just don't have the time to recruit and train like we usually do. It was a fun little way to get to know our inductees, but everything with the Institute lately has gone into overdrive. Desdemona has put a lot of faith in you, you know. I mean, you could be anybody, and suddenly you're an agent in HQ? Amazing, and it was mostly my doing, too."

"Okay," she mused aloud, determined to catch him in a lie. "So… what did Desdemona read when she first joined up?"

"Oh, come on, Wanda. Isn't it obvious? Shakespeare, where do you think the code name came from?"

"Really, Othello? Okay, fine. What about… Tinker Tom?"

Deacon tried to suppress his grin. This was just too easy. It was a good thing he was wearing sunglasses, or she'd see the joke in his eyes. "I think Tom had read some Orwell when he joined HQ. Makes sense with the all the paranoia, doesn't it?"

Wanderer rolled her eyes. "I'm a Dostoevsky kind of lady, myself. Suspense, with just the right amount of realism…"

He pointed at her almost accusingly. "See? We know you're a prewar type, so there's not much of a point in making you read prewar literature. It's not hard to tell that you wouldn't have a problem with reading the classics. It just didn't make sense to give you that test. I mean, you spelled 'Railroad' correctly and everything!"

"I had no idea that being able to spell eight-letter words was comparable to being able to digest classic literature."

"I'm telling you, you'd be surprised. Okay, my turn! Hmm…"

Before he could think of a question, Wanderer interrupted his musing with a slight raise of her cup. "It can't be directly about the Railroad," she said. "I'm getting to know you, and you me, not the Railroad."

Deacon raised a brow, one of the only telltale signs that he had emotions what with his eyes being concealed with his shades. "Making up rules now, are we? What, you aren't interested in the Railroad?"

Her face had tinged with pink, whether it was from the wine or embarrassment was unclear. Perhaps a little of both, Deacon reasoned. To tell the truth, which he rarely did, even to himself, it was difficult to tell where he ended and the Railroad began. Impossible, maybe. They were one in the same these days.

Deacon was good with his words, could say whatever he could imagine to get the information he needed, but this was different, and he was almost at a loss for words.

Almost.

"Generic question- what everyone wants to know about you, I suppose," he began slowly. She quirked her eyebrow.

"Well? Spit it out, D."

"What's it like, you know, falling asleep in one world and waking up in a whole new one? Obviously, the world has changed and besides all the radiation, what stands out the most?"

Damn, that really was the kicker, she thought. So maybe this wasn't a game anymore, maybe they really were getting to know each other. He usually wasn't one for such personal questions.

It took some time for her to come up with a reply. His eyes never left her while she thought- attention drawn to her jaw tensing over and over, and her pursing her lips.

"Well, obviously it sucked," she began. "It was horrible to see everything or everyone I had known and loved had been long destroyed or dead. Strange, of course, waking up and having to live a completely different way of life, but… well, there's more to it than that."

He leaned in a little more, interest clearly piqued. As hard as he was to read, she always found it easy to tell when he was interested in a target.

"It's kind of difficult to explain, but it was almost refreshing to start over again. Everyone thinks that life was perfect in the old world, in reality, it was far from it."

"If it was perfect, then there wouldn't have been an all-out nuclear war," Deacon pointed out.

"Exactly," she agreed. "I had a perfect house with a perfect lawn, perfect job, perfect family. I miss my family more than anything but… there was something so nauseating about it all, I suppose. I remember everyone in the neighborhood was so passive-aggressive. My husband was often away from home, since he was in the military, you see. Toward the end of my pregnancy with Shaun, my wedding ring didn't fit on my hand for a few months, and I could hardly go in public without judgmental stares in every direction."

Wanderer shook her head. "Everybody back then, and their stupid social expectations. It's like everybody had this image that they wore, and behind closed doors, they became someone else. They spread nasty rumors about whoever they wanted." She straightened her back and glanced at the wedding band still around her finger. "This new world has its own set of problems, no doubt about it. Only now, I can blow a super mutant's brains out all over the pavement when I'm frustrated. Does that make sense?"

Deacon smirked. "Super mutant's brains? Sounds like an oxymoron to me."

She laughed and realized she'd reached the bottom of her cup. "Don't let Strong catch you saying that," she joked back, indicating to him that her cup was empty. He stood to pour them both another cup of wine.

"Come on, Wanda. Strong doesn't know what 'oxymoron' means." He handed her back the chipped cup now refilled and returned to his spot next to her with his. "Seriously though, I think you have the right kind of perspective on all this shit," he said gesturing vaguely around him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've faced ridiculous odds since waking up from that icebox. Everyone thought you were just some soft prewar type who wouldn't last a week in the wasteland, but you've done so much more. You hunted down the man who stole your child, you made allies in every corner of the wasteland, and you made it all the way to the Institute. _No one_ has done that. And why? How did you do it?"

She was surprised by his outburst. She shook her head, clueless. She was on the tipsy side, and at a loss for words.

"Because you were so determined to find your son and recover what had been stolen, and you refuse to give up at every turn. It's incredible, honestly. Almost… well, inhuman."

Wanderer winced. He'd hit a sore subject, and he noticed right away. His face had reddened with hers; it was a state she'd never seen him in before.

They were quiet for a while. They listened to the rumbling thunder and the unsettling sounds of irradiated lightning that had rolled above Sanctuary. She poured herself another cup, and he did the same.

After several more minutes of silence, the air between them had grown tense. Wanderer downed this cup more quickly than she had the other two.

"I thought you were dead, you know," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear, as if it was some sort of secret. "I thought that we… that I had lost all hope."

Wanderer opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her.

"I don't expect you to talk about it just yet, that's not what I'm trying to say." Deacon allowed himself a deep sigh. "It's just, well… damn it."

She didn't press him, just waited in silence for him to finish his thought. She didn't have to wait awhile.

"Wanda, I promised you that your son was out there and that I would help you find him. I was so sure that there was a chance this time and… I'm sorry," he finally managed. Curse that damn wine, he knew that this wasn't what she needed right now, but Deacon couldn't help himself. He never could hold his alcohol very well.

Wanderer leaned in close and tried to make out his eyes from behind those sunglasses. They were the disguise that acted as the barrier between anyone else and his mind, his soul, whatever… She swore she could see his eyes, even in the dimly lit room, lightened only every few seconds by the green haze of the radiation storm outside her door.

She had just finished her fourth glass now, or had it been five? Either way, Deacon could tell by the clouded fog of her eyes and her proximity that Wanderer was getting to be drunk. Not the light, whimsical sort of drunk but the heavy kind, where your limbs felt like lead and the world sat upon your shoulders.

When she finally spoke, they were mere inches from each other.

"Listen to me, D. I need to tell you something important, because I trust you. You can't let anyone else know about this, not Desdemona, or Carrington, or anyone else. Please, D, please promise me you won't tell them," she pleaded. "And you can't ask any questions, either," she added hastily.

He was drawn in to her words- a part of him felt guilt at her urging, he knew if she hadn't told him whatever it was earlier when she sober then she likely didn't want him to know. She should have known better to trust him with a secret, that was for damn sure.

"I promise."

She laughed then, a deep throaty laugh from within her core. "You're lying, I know you're lying, but I'm going to tell you anyway, because why the hell not? You've already come this far with me."

Opening her mouth to tell him, the words were on the tip of her tongue when she jerked backward, stopping herself.

She'd almost just compromised her position as an Agent with the Railroad. How would Deacon have reacted, if she revealed she'd just met her son and they were now reunited? That he was the enemy?

"What is it?" Deacon asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone.

"I feel sick," she lied.

He helped her up, eyeing the empty bottle. How hadn't he noticed the wine ran dry?

"That's what you didn't want me to tell anyone? Come on, you've been through a lot. Let's get you to bed, Wanda."

Wanderer allowed him to lift her a little, hobbling over to bed using his shoulder as a crutch as she hobbled to the small bed on the opposite corner of the room. She settled into bed quietly, too regretful to look at his face again.

What a mess this was.

He pulled the blanket over her resting form before retreating to the living area and grabbing another drink from the kitchen and sipping it quietly, listing to the rumbles of the radstorm.


	4. Chapter 4

Light flooded into her bedroom from the glass pane windows, rousing Wanderer from her sleep. She stretched, slipped out of bed, stretched some more, and gazed out from the window. The skies were blue with fluffed clouds, all hint of the ominous green storm from the previous night gone. There was a buzz of activity along the familiar curving Sanctuary road, its settlers bustling about to complete their daily chores.

When Wanderer left the bedroom, Deacon was nowhere to be seen. After a quick breakfast of some dry goods she'd found in the pantry, Wanderer retreated to the closet to fix her hair and don the Minutemen General's coat she'd lifted from the Castle. A few minutes later and she was out the door, in search of Preston and anyone else who would be waiting for her return from the Institute.

She had no idea where Deacon _had_ run off to, but she was sure he would turn up when he felt like it. She faltered for a moment, remembered of her near confession from the previous night.

Wanderer pushed the thoughts from her mind.

Sanctuary was nigh unrecognizable since the Minutemen had been reestablished there. At the entrance by the bridge was a huge gate, heavily guarded. A tattered American flag flew proudly alongisde the Minutemen flag.

All the little houses had been expanded, with little farming plots around the yards where there used to be picture perfect hedges and white picket fences. There was a whole new level to Sanctuary now- literally, as new homes and structures had been built atop the old houses, bridges and ladders connecting them all. Water purifiers lined the little river, which had turned Sanctuary into a hub for gathering clean water. It was no Capital wasteland, but the water in Sanctuary was still a commodity.

At the end of the old cul-de-sac, in the center of the settlement was the Sanctuary Minutemen headquarters; at least it was before the Castle was reclaimed. Four stories high and built of solid concrete, it was one of the more impressive additions to Sanctuary, built upon the remains of a home that had been demolished by the nuclear winds and God knows what else. The first floor was used as a meeting space and for planning operations, while the second and third floors were used for storage and Minutemen quartering. On the highest floor was an armory, difficult to reach and guarded by her most trusted soldiers.

Many Minutemen operations were still planned here, and since the Castle was so far from Sanctuary, it was more like an alternate headquarters. She was sure she'd find Preston here, and maybe a few others as well. Many of her friends had become personally invested in the fight against the Institute, and several wanted to aid her in her mission of building a better Commonwealth for the good of all its inhabitants. Constructing the molecular relay had been a secretive affair, and a few of her friends had been clearly dismayed they wouldn't be able to help or at least be present for her sendoff to the Institute.

She opened the heavy steel door and shut it carefully behind her. Preston, MacCready, and Hancock stood around the planning table discussing something in hushed tones. Preston and MacCready had their backs to her, but Hancock was opposite them so he was the first to see her enter.

"I gotta be hallucinating," he said, forcing MacCready and Preston to turn and see what Hancock was staring at.

"Nica, you're back!" MacCready all but shouted. She approached the bewildered men with a soft smile. It was good to see her friends again.

"I'm back," she agreed, unsure how to approach the question they'd surely want to ask.

"Well," MacCready began, "You still look like you, so I guess that relay thing didn't turn you into a pile of mush."

"So…" Hancock started quietly. "You really did it? You went to the Institute?"

Wanderer just nodded solemnly.

"You just made history," exclaimed Preston. "Visiting the Institute is a one-way trip for most people."

"Yeah, you wanna explain how you made it out of there alive?" MacCready asked. "And, you know, what happened in there? Did you find Shaun?"

Her face fell a little, confirming their fears. Quiet fell over the room.

"I found the Institute," she began slowly. "I should be careful what I say, but the Railroad wants me to infiltrate them from the inside. As for my son…" Wanderer paused. "It was too late for him."

Surprisingly, Preston was the first to say something. "You did what you could, General. Your son would want you to keep going on and be strong. You must do what's best for the Minutemen, and defeat the Institute once and for all. That's what Shaun and your husband would have wanted you to do."

Wanderer's eyes drifted shut, a pang of grief in her chest. She knew that Preston was just trying to help, but he had no idea how wrong he was. In fact, what Shaun wanted was quite different.

"I'm not so sure about that," she said, her tone a little sharper than before. They all fell silent.

"I sure could go for a smoke," MacCready said quickly, sensing the growing tension in the room. "Come on Nica, why don't you join me?" he slung an arm haphazardly around her shoulder and guided her back outside.

"What, I don't get an invite?" grumbled Hancock, following them outside and leaving Preston there alone. "I'm telling you, these kids have no respect for their elders."

Once outside, MacCready pulled a pack of cigarettes from his duster pocket, silently handing her one and lit them both up. They were joined a few seconds later by Hancock who eyed them quietly before leaning coolly against the wall.

Wanderer inhaled deeply. She shouldn't be cross with the ones who were just trying to help, she knew that.

Before the war had broken out and turned her life upside down, Wanderer had lost her mother to disease. A large tumor inside her stomach, one that had surprised the doctors and claimed her mother's life far too quickly. No one knew what to say to her then, when she'd been grieving, but some still tried.

" _Your mother would want you to move on, start a family of your own."_

" _There's a reason for everything you know- this is all a part of God's plan."_

" _She's in a better place, now."_

Sometimes people have good intentions, but don't know what to do with them, Nate had told her. Now she'd lost him too.

Maybe Shaun really was all she had left.

She remembered her conversation with Deacon the previous night, remembered every expectation weighing on her shoulders like heavy armor made of metal. She would need to swallow her grief and continue doing what was expected of her. That's just the way it was.

Allowing her chest to fill with the smoke and exhaling, Wanderer realized the bombs hadn't even destroyed the insufferable social standards that plagued the old world. Here she was, grieving for the loss of her family, and she was still being pulled in so many different directions. She needed to stay by the Minutemen, she needed to do what was best for the people, she needed to save the synths from persecution, she needed to infiltrate the Institute to save the Commonwealth.

And then there was the part of her brain that she couldn't turn off- that parental instinct that so few of her friends now could share. The part that demanded she stay with her family, no matter what. Was she supposed to simply abandon her own son?

She turned back to MacCready and flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette. He was silent, staring out at the workings of Sanctuary. She wondered how hard it must have been for him, when his son had been sick. Upon first meeting him, she thought he was nothing more than a mercenary with a bad attitude, but later discovered he was more devoted to his son than anything in the world.

"How's Duncan?" she asked quietly, so only he could hear. He met her eyes, understanding. He too, had lost someone close to him.

"He's doing great," MacCready said. "It's hard getting letters up there, but I do know he's made a full recovery. I was actually thinking of heading up there with one of Daisy's caravans. I… I don't want to miss out on him growing up before it's too late," he shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure where to tread on the subject. He had admitted once to her that her quest to reunite with Shaun had forced MacCready into reality; he wanted to be with Duncan, more than anything.

Wanderer's eyes found the floor. "I can't say that I don't understand the feeling," she began. "I'd be sad to see you leave, but your son is the most important thing- what's so funny?" she asked accusatively as he began to chuckle.

"Nothing…" he managed. "You think I would leave this place? Look at the life you've helped build here in Sanctuary, and there are more than a dozen settlements in the Commonwealth just like it. I mean, sure, the Capitol Wasteland has clean water, but I want Duncan to see this." He was confident in his reply, and his words filled her chest with a sense of pride. "Of course, I…" he sighed.

"What is it, MacCready?"

He broke eye contact and looked back over Sanctuary, suddenly enraptured by a small tato patch on the opposite side of the street. There was a redheaded woman in jeans and a t-shirt on her hands and knees in the patch, face dirty and hair wild.

"I had hoped my Duncan and your Shaun would be able to meet, you know? Be friends, or some sh- something like that. They were close in age, I thought it would be a great idea…"

Wanderer felt battered by another wave of emotion. She knew that her Shaun wasn't really gone, and yet she still felt herself grieving over him, the same way she had grieved over her husband.

The worst moments in grief were the tiny little reminders of memories that they were here, however long ago, and the gradual realization that you would never get to make new memories with them. It wasn't a hard hit, that realization. It was slow, seeping into her like a dull poison making its way through her body. Something told her that the Shaun she knew now wouldn't be keen to join her here and make fond memories with Wanderer and her friends.

She couldn't help but smile; the thought was a bittersweet one. "I'm sure they would have been thrilled to meet each other," she said.

Wanderer heard a quiet cough to her left and turned to find the source. She had forgotten Hancock had followed them outside, he had been so unusually quiet. He leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on her.

She glanced forward again, attention suddenly caught by a Minutemen soldier passing them who looked oddly familiar. The standard militia uniform complete with a standard issue rifle was rather convincing, but those shades she recognized anywhere.

"Soldier, come here," she called out. The man stopped in his tracks and turned around sheepishly. He obeyed her orders, marching back to where she stood on the deck.

Wanderer crossed her arms when the soldier finally approached. "Where did you find a Minutemen uniform, Deacon?"

"Come on boss," he retorted. "There's tons of stuff laying around this place."

"Get ready to return to HQ," she told him, shaking her head at his usual antics. "We're leaving within the hour, while it's still early."

"Aye aye, caption." He turned again on his heel and left, presumably to stock up on supplies. Wanderer turned back to MacCready, who was dousing his cigarette in the dirt.

"Why were you two speaking to Preston a few minutes ago? Did something happen?" she asked, jolting back to reality.

Hancock spoke up. "Some of us, like sniper boy and I here, got tired of waiting around here while we could be helping people out. We've led a couple of teams out to clear the way for new settlements, trade routes, you know the works."

"Who's we?"

The ghoulish mayor shrugged casually. "Piper, Preston, MacCready and I- even Cait's been helpin' out. Not like she's got much else going on. I think Curie was even trying to set up a couple of settlement schoolhouses."

Wanderer was taken aback. Hancock made it seem like no big deal, but what they were doing was very noble. She'd never asked any of her friends to devote themselves to her mission to rebuild the Commonwealth, but it seems they'd followed along anyway.

"Now, don't call me corny for this, but I know what you're thinking. The truth is, you've started something good and made the rest of us realize what we need to be doing to help. We're glad to do it. Most of us aren't just in it for the promise of caps," Hancock said accusatively, sparing a sidelong glance for MacCready.

MacCready snorted. "Yeah, yeah, but I don't exactly see you complaining about the caps either, Hancock."

She laughed listening to their banter, their guffaws melting away at the cinderblock in her chest.

A half hour later, Wanderer arrived at the bridge leading over the river, out of Sanctuary. She wasn't surprised to find Deacon there, dutifully waiting for her. Walking past him without a second glance, he spun around, tagging along close behind.

She had donned her leathers once again, along with a fur-lined bomber jacket and a gray woolen scarf. She followed the road south through Concord and towards Lexington. Wanderer led the way with a brisk pace, occasionally breaking out into a jog. All the while, Deacon lingered ten or so feet behind.

He preferred to travel that way sometimes, while other times he would stay right next to her throughout their journey, chatting up a storm. Sometimes he'd mix it up, or linger behind even further. He wasn't exactly the most predictable of travelling companions, but Wanderer suspected he had his reasons.

Deacon had once told her, when they first began travelling together, that he was unaccustomed to travelling with another.

Wanderer still hadn't told Deacon of her findings in the Institute, but she supposed it was no use to tell him now. He'd eventually find out when she gave her report to Desdemona later that day, even if she met with Desdemona in private. She wasn't sure what she was going to tell the Railroad- she supposed her contact with Patriot would be the most meaningful information to Desdemona, but Wanderer wasn't sure what else the woman would ask about. She had been away for two weeks, so likely they would be curious what she could have learned in such a long period of time. It would be difficult to explain why else the Institute had welcomed her with open arms, besides the fact that her son was the Institute Director. In any other situation, she most certainly would have been considered an enemy.

At the sound of raised voices, Wanderer instinctively crouched low to the ground and tried to source the noise. They were still in a relatively open area, so it'd be harder to hide but easier to spot any potential enemies. It didn't take her long to locate them; raiders up ahead, standing in some sloppy formation near the road. Three, she counted. It looked to be some disorganized attempt at an ambush; raiders weren't typically known for their wits, and a decent ambush usually required at least a few of those. Wanderer and Deacon had drawn their weapons, and they hadn't even been noticed yet.

Wanderer tuned in to the raiders' conversation.

"Come on man, I didn't take it, I swear," one of them was saying.

"Bullshit," shouted back another. "You've been eyeing my jet for days and we all fuckin' know it."

"You're strung out, man! You need to sit down and relax or some shit."

Of course they were fighting over chems, Wanderer thought. It wasn't like raiders had many other interesting conversation topics on hand, she supposed, besides terrorizing settlers and murderous pillaging.

She glanced toward Deacon and he responded with a quick nod. They separated, heading opposite directions to flank the raiders from either side and give them a nasty surprise. It wouldn't take them very long to dispatch them; raiders fought sloppy, neither did they perform well against the element of surprise.

She detested raiders; all they did was create needless terror in the Commonwealth, the opposite of what she was trying to promote with the Minutemen. They were a direct threat to her cause, and Wanderer spared them no mercy.

Wanderer crouched behind a rock outcropping adjacent to the group of raiders, and spotted Deacon in a similar position across from her, behind a large tree stump, waiting for her signal.

She turned her attention back to the raiders. Their fight was getting louder and louder, and she supposed they ought to solve the issue before they attracted any more unwanted attention. Wanderer drew Deliverer from her belt, the silenced 10mm pistol once owned by Tommy Whispers, given to her by Deacon. It was his vote of confidence in her, he'd told her.

She held her left hand up where Deacon could see it, all five fingers outstretched. _Five_. After a moment, she tucked her thumb into her palm. _Four._ Her pinky followed. _Three._

For the last two counts, Wanderer rescinded her left hand back and used it to steady her aim towards the group of raiders.

 _Two. One._

Wanderer and Deacon pulled the trigger simultaneously, sending clean shots through the head of the raider nearest to either of them. The third, a woman that was in the middle of the two arguing men still stood, taken aback at the two men dropping dead on the ground. Panicking, she flung her head about in a crazed motion, looking for either the killer or some cover and found neither. Wanderer took the kill, sending her second bullet through the raider's chest and a third when the woman still spasmed on the ground.

As per usual, they waited a good thirty seconds in their respective hiding spots before emerging. Wanderer rummaged through the pockets for caps, while Deacon turned up his nose.

"Ah, the age-old practice of corpse looting," he said, making… well, eye contact with a detached eyeball surrounded by bits of brain strewn on the ground. Among the scattered remains he spotted small detached wire that he would have missed if he hadn't been examining the scene.

"All right," she said, rising to her feet. "We should get a move on."

"Hold up, Wanda," Deacon said, bending down to pick up the object, still covered in questionable bodily fluids. Her eyes widened.

"Is that…?"

"A synth component," he finished for her.

They looked around for other signs of the Institute; it was difficult to tell which raider the component had belonged to, as the contents of both of their skulls was now scattered everywhere.

Wanderer breathed a sigh. Was this synth one of the Institute's spies, or was it simply an escaped prisoner, freed by the Railroad? Had it even been aware that it was a synth at all? They were the questions she hated asking herself the most.

Deacon said nothing.

Dusk had fallen over the Commonwealth by the time they reached the Old North Church. For the last couple hours of the trek, Deacon had stayed close behind her instead of lingering further back, as Boston Common tended to be more dangerous than the open Wealth; packed to the brim with ferals, super mutants, raiders, and everything else that seemed to want their heads on a spike. The two slipped inside the secret crypt entrance, shielding them from the view of any Institute spies that might be watching them.

When she'd first begun travelling with Deacon, he had vaguely warned her about crows that could sometimes be seen lingering around the Commonwealth. She wasn't totally sure if it was entirely true, but she'd asked about the rumors around Railroad HQ. Everyone in HQ had echoed Deacon's warning: _"Don't let the Watchers see you."_

Honestly, she'd thought the idea a little too paranoid for her tastes, but the more she'd learned about the Institute, the less crazy the idea seemed. Many Railroad safehouses the past several months had been ambushed and slaughtered by Institute synths, and it was nigh impossible to determine how the Institute had discovered the safehouses' locations.

The scientists of the Institute had very little physical contact with the aboveground, but it would be a liability to them, not knowing exactly what was going on in the world. The idea seemed more likely to her even now; the Institute had been working on synthetic gorillas. Would synthetic crows to act as spies be a stretch?

Wanderer avoided the Watchers now.

They reached the end of the tunnel, where Railroad HQ was just a heavy closed door away. She stared long and hard at the door for a few moments before pulling the handle and stepping inside, Deacon not far behind.

Immediately the musty old smell of the crypt overwhelmed her senses, as it always did when she first stepped inside. Wanderer had no idea how everyone in HQ could live alongside tombs and skeletons every day, but that was likely her softer Pre-war sensibilities coming through, as they often did out here in the Commonwealth.

Desdemona stood near the center of the crypt, by their makeshift planning table. She spoke in hushed tones with Dr. Carrington, likely planning some mission or other. Before Wanderer could approach the pair, she heard Drummer Boy cry out in surprise.

"Hey, it's Wanderer! Wanderer's back!"

She felt everyone's eyes in HQ turn toward her. Desdemona had turned around, face frozen in shock.

"Oh. Thank. God," Desdemona whispered audibly. Tinker Tom cheered in the background.

"See, Dez?" Tom shouted. "I told you the molecular stabilization matrix held."

Desdemona smirked and shook her head. "Funny. You didn't sound so certain a couple of days ago."

The woman turned her attention back to where Wanderer and Deacon stood in the middle of the room. "It is really, really good to see you, Wanderer. Did it work? Did you make it inside the Institute?"

Wanderer paused a moment, trying to formulate her response. She looked around the crypt, where the members of the Railroad HQ were all chattering excitedly, waiting for her to speak. Her eyes fell upon the chalkboard in the back, where the Railroad agents and safehouses were listed. Her expression fell.

Her code name, Wanderer, had a strike drawn through it.

Deacon had been acting strangely when she returned, but she didn't think much on it. She was too overwhelmed as it was. They all really thought she had died; they were sure enough about it that they'd crossed out her name, just like Tommy Whispers.

"You thought I died?" she asked, almost accusative.

"I saw you disintegrate before my eyes," Desdemona said defensively. "Then the whole machine blew up! Besides, you were gone for weeks. Tom insisted you'd dematerialized in time. But Tom's track record with experiments… leaves something to be desired. I've never been happier to tell Tom I was wrong. It did work, right?"

Wanderer sighed. "The signal interceptor worked. I've been to the Institute, and back again."

Desdemona seemed at a loss for words. "I almost can't believe it," she mumbled. "Tom's holotape. Did you make contact with Patriot?"

Of course it was one of the first things she would ask. She knew Desdemona didn't care for Wanderer's personal quest as much as her desire to save synths. Wanderer supposed she shouldn't be surprised.

"I met Patriot. His name is Liam Binet."

Desdemona was obviously very pleased. "I knew you'd get the job done. We need every scrap of intel you picked up in there. I need you to write up a full report on PAM's terminal. After you're done, we'll analyze it and figure out the next step. Get to it," she told Wanderer with more than a little urgency in her tone.

Wanderer didn't say anything else, leaving silently for PAM's room. The agents in the room had parted to clear a path for her as she sauntered by.

Deacon stared after her without a word.

Desdemona turned back to Dr. Carrington and resumed their conversation, this time with a little more added gusto. Drummer Boy approached him, a small, familiar-looking pouch in his outstretched hand. Deacon almost let himself smile.

"Keep your caps, pal," Deacon said simply, clapping Drummer Boy on the shoulder and walking past him to find a bite to eat.

Wanderer's hands hovered over the terminal keyboard for a long while as she thought of what to write. Would she be able to return to Shaun and keep up her infiltration game after this? The thought brought a pang of guilt to her chest.

Her hands begun to move, picking up pace as she went.

 _Institute Report – 01_

 _Though it wasn't a certainty, thankfully the Signal Interceptor worked. When I materialized I found myself in an empty room. I followed a hallway and found myself in the heart of the Institute. As it turns out, the leader of the Institute, Father, as they call him, was there waiting for me. He knew that I had taken down Kellogg to find my son, but I'm not sure what else he knows about me. Whichever the case, he seemed enthusiastic about me joining the Institute, due to my "skills and tenacity." I was shocked to hear this, and was sure that it must be some sort of trap._

 _Now though, I have been given free access to the Institute, personal quarters, and the ability to come and go as I see fit. I was introduced to many of the leading scientists there. They are working various forms of technology there, but the central focus seems to be on their synth project._

 _I saw the synths as they were created, bone by bone, muscle by muscle. It's a fast, refined process. One scientist there seemed to disagree with the subjugation of synths: Liam Binet. His father plays an important role in synth production, and Liam is the one who frees them from the Institute. Liam finds excuses to send synths who wish to escape to the surface where they are found by the Railroad._

 _Using Tom's network scanner, I found and spoke with Liam Binet aka PATRIOT. He wants to use this opportunity to free thirteen synths at once, with the help of another synth, Z1-14. Z1-14 can get the thirteen synths in place, but in order for them to make it to the teleporter, PATRIOT needs the username and password for v1 of CIT's Code Defender program._

 _As for my son, he has been lost to me. I now intend to devote my time and resources to helping the Railroad._

 _End of Report._

Deacon and Wanderer were rummaging through a pile of supplies when Drummer Boy approached them. She was going through a shelf of ammunition, while Deacon seemed more preoccupied with a pile of wigs and disguises. Drummer Boy idly wondered where the agent kept all his disguises while he was travelling on the road. The two agents had spent nearly half a day back in Railroad HQ but they were already gearing up for their next outing.

Drummer Boy felt exhausted even thinking about it. Sure, it was his job to monitor all the dead drops, but he wasn't on the road nearly as much as Wanderer and Deacon.

"Wanderer," he finally said. She turned to him, and tilted her head inquisitively. "PAM and Dez need to speak with you. They're in the back."

She said nothing, set down the pack she was holding and walked away without a word. The woman usually had much more to say, but she'd seemed on edge the past couple of days. He chased away the fleeting thought that she was a synth replacement. Surely Deacon would have suspected such a thing, if it were true.

He glanced at Deacon who was still going through his clothes as if nothing had happened.

"Hey, Deacon. By any chance, have you read Wanderer's report? I'm really curious about what she found in there."

Deacon turned to him.

"It's a password protected report, on the terminal, meant only for the eyes of PAM and Dez," he told Drummer Boy simply.

Drummer Boy stared at him for a few moments.

"So… what did it say?"

Deacon shrugged lazily. "Something about login credentials."

Drummer Boy looked confused. Deacon slipped away to avoid any more questions, and eavesdrop on the group's meeting.

"Welcome," greeted Desdemona when Wanderer stepped inside the back room. "We need to determine your next course of action. PAM has analyzed your report and is going to figure out the next step," she said, gesturing to the assaultron standing next to her.

PAM was a very useful Railroad asset, of course, but assaultrons always made Wanderer nervous. They tended to be quite dangerous in the wild, but PAM hadn't driven her astray before. Wanderer nodded, waiting for PAM's response.

"Code name PATRIOT requires admin credentials for Code Defender security software," rattled PAM in her robotic voice. "Cross-indexing CIT Security Administrators with 2077 Commonwealth Census records. Filtering by surviving structures."

The robot paused.

"One match found. Bergman, Wilfred. Bergman, Wilfred registered as co-owner of Cambridge Polymer Labs. Estimated 81% chance of login credentials being located at this facility."

So, her next stop was Cambridge Polymer Labs.

"Thanks PAM, very helpful," Wanderer replied.

"Compliment detected. Analysis: irrelevant."

Desdemona stepped in. "After you get the password, report back here. With any luck, we'll have a game plan by then."

Wanderer didn't say anything, just tilted her head slightly enough to show that she'd heard Desdemona.

They were on the road again shortly, the pair having wasted no time after she'd been given PAM's assessment. It was mid-afternoon, and the skies were clear. They'd encountered some feral dogs just outside of the church, but besides that, the coast seemed clear.

Wanderer focused on Deacon's back. He led the way this time, and she followed closely behind. He'd settled on a plain, dingy t-shirt that clung to his upper body and some everyday blue jeans with sneakers.

He was lean for the most part, yet she noticed as she stared that his arms were quite strong. No wigs or hats this time, but of course, he still wore his sunglasses. He was actually quite handsome, in his own way.

She realized that they hadn't spoken much, since that night in Sanctuary with the radiation storm. It was unusual for them; Deacon was as chatty as they come most of the time, and she happy to oblige him. Come to think of it, it had been tense between them ever since she'd stepped foot into the molecular relay.

"So… you thought I was dead, did you?"

"Of course not," he said immediately. Wanderer piqued an eyebrow.

"No?" she asked.

"No," he affirmed again. "The Railroad thought you were dead. But you're not, so… yeah."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. You are the Railroad, D."

"Hey Wanda," he shot back. "I have a story, too, you know. There's more to me than the Railroad."

Wanderer grinned. "Do tell."

"Let's see… it all started when I was about seven. I had a pretty big family in this decently sized settlement, you see, lots of brothers and sisters. That's when the accident happened." He gave a deep sigh, and Wanderer silently listened, keeping her eyes on the road as they walked.

"I don't know what caused it really, the fire. Some say it was raiders with flamer guns, some just say it was a roasting radroach gone astray. The only thing I remember is the smoke waking me up from my sleep, choking the breath from my lungs." Deacon paused. "I was the only survivor. I had nothing else. I joined up with the Railroad to, I don't know, make a difference? Anyway, here I am," he finished. Wanderer nodded slowly and pursed her lips a few times.

"They all died in a fire, huh?" she asked. "I gotta say Deacon, this doesn't have nearly as much flair as most of your other stories. You feeling okay?"

Deacon scoffed. "What, so tragic backstories need to have flair, now?"

"Yours do," she said, laughing.

They joked like that for a while. Neither admitted it, but it felt good to both to have their old back and forth again. This whole Institute mission had complicated things.

At one point, when Deacon was telling her some embellished story about the early days in the Railroad, her mind wandered back to Shaun. She wanted to return to him and spend time getting to know him, but she also felt guilty. The Institute had been her enemy this whole time, but now… God, she didn't even know what the Institute was to her anymore. She had always believed wholeheartedly in the Railroad's missions, but now, something about what she was doing felt… almost wrong. Every step took her closer to her betrayal of her own son, and it filled her with dread.

Deacon seemed to notice her mood turn, so he'd stopped talking. They were silent for a long while, what felt like minutes could have been hours.

Eventually, she cracked under the mounting dread on her shoulders. She couldn't keep hiding this, she just couldn't bear it. It was tearing at her from the inside, threatening to rip her resolve to shreds.

"He's not dead," she blurted out. "My son. My son is alive," Wanderer told Deacon, tears filling her eyes. It was all she'd been thinking about since her return but this was the first time it had brought her to actual tears. "But it's so, so much worse than that."

Wanderer stopped in her tracks, the tears finally spilling down her cheeks. She felt like an idiot. She was so vulnerable.

"He's in charge," she continued, willing herself not to sob. "He's leading the Institute now. I don't know how but he's… he's an old man. It's my son, and he's leading the Institute… I don't know what to do…"

Deacon had gone stiff. He wasn't the openly emotional type, and neither was she. Truthfully, after he'd read her terminal report, he'd suspected there was something more to the story. The Institute had welcomed her with open arms, which didn't arouse Desdemona's suspicion but his had been on high alert. It all made sense, now.

She was crying now. He shifted uncomfortably. Deacon wasn't the hugging type.

They had been following the railroad tracks out of town, encountering abandoned train cars all along the stretch of tracks. The trains must have come to a screeching halt, the day the bombs fell. They were as good a place to hide as any.

Deacon steered her toward a bright orange train car, dingy with rust from the ages. Her breathing had become shallow, and he feared she was beginning to hyperventilate. He lifted her over her shoulder into the train car and set her back down in the back, where they would be obscured from view. Quietly, he sat across from her, letting her cry.

He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back, and didn't let go.


	5. Chapter 5

It didn't take a long while for Wanderer to compose herself again, after she admitted the truth to Deacon. She'd held his hand for a few minutes and let her emotions out. It had been as comforting a gesture as she was likely to receive from him at all, but she was grateful all the same. Her confidant didn't have much to say, which she really didn't mind, if she was being honest with herself. If she'd told Piper what had happened, then Wanderer knew that she wouldn't be hearing the end of it right now. The last thing she wanted was to be grilled about the Institute.

What Deacon would do with the information, on the other hand, was another story. It would be an understatement to say that he was incredibly loyal to the Railroad, and undoubtedly would want to make sure that she wouldn't compromise their position in any way. Besides that, she could only guess. He'd been so quick to place his faith in Wanderer when she first joined up; she wondered if that faith still stood. She suspected that he wouldn't try to have her removed from the Railroad, but she could never be sure that she knew him as well as she thought she did.

It was difficult to think logically about the situation, when she was still so emotionally clouded. Here she was, placing all her trust in a known liar. Maybe she had made a mistake blurting out the truth about her son.

Jesus, I'm going mad, she thought.

The road to Cambridge was eerily quiet. It was still early morning when they'd left; it was her favorite time to travel, with the least chance of being intercepted by raiders or any other groups. Ferals and mutants, on the other hand, didn't care what time of day it was as they ripped you to shreds.

Deacon, on the other hand, was stewing. He kept his head straight forward, but behind his shades, he was watching her out of his peripherals.

"I've got something to tell you," he told her quietly. "It's time you knew the Big Secret."

She glanced over at him, face still raw from tears. "Secret?" she mumbled.

Deacon nodded. "Everyone thinks that Desdemona is the big boss. She calls the ops, gives the ra-ra speeches, but it's just an act. She does what I tell her to because the Railroad? It's my show. It's been that way since I founded it."

Wanderer, in surprise, stopped in her tracks. Her companion stared after her a moment before she resumed their pace. "You? You founded the Railroad?"

"Sure. Me and Johnny D. and Watts. Hell, that was over 60… 70 years ago? After a while, you lose count." Wanderer raised a brow, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I know you're bald, D, but you sure are in great shape for being over 70 years old."

He chuckled at that. "Don't flatter me, Wanda. I tell everyone I get the occasional face change to stay anonymous. Truth is, it takes a lot of work to keep this mug handsome."

Wanderer shook her head, the ghost of a grin lighting her features. His tone grew serious.

"We've come a long way since the beginning. We've done a lot of good, saved a lot of synths. But… we're about more than that. We're the last and only line of defense between the Institute and the Commonwealth. Hell, maybe even the world," he said dramatically, his words flowing easily as honey.

His words were grandiose, but he still had tells, even though Wanderer couldn't always quite place her finger on them.

"I know you're lying, D. That just doesn't add up."

Deacon sighed, both disappointed that she'd caught on to him and impressed that she'd snuffed his lie out so quickly.

"Yeah… you got me. But you're gonna hear the same sort of lies elsewhere. There's other organizations out there and in time, I'm sure they're gonna spoon feed you their own patented form of bullshit. Ignore the verbiage and look at what they're doing, what they're asking you to do. What sort of world they'd have you build, and how they're going to pay for it!"

The air between them turned grim. They had, on numerous occasions, discussed how the Brotherhood of Steel was a danger to the Commonwealth, how they obsessed over technology while they blundered over people just trying to live in peace.

This wasn't just about the Brotherhood, anymore.

"What about the Railroad?" she asked tentatively. "What sort of world would you have me build?" It was a loaded question, but Deacon jumped right on. A subject he thought about often, clearly.

"We're not about saving the world, too big a job for too few. We're trying to make it a better one, one synth at a time. And care about the little guys, maybe lend a hand on the side. Not as much as some would like but hey, it's something. But the real question is: what do you think of us?"

Wanderer let her head fall, suddenly fascinated with the dirt beneath her boots. She knew exactly what he was asking, the veiled truth behind his words. Deacon didn't wait for a reply.

"At the end of the day, you'll need to make a choice. Make it the right one," he said imploringly, his words resounding through her head.

 _The Railroad, or the Institute,_ she finished for him in the privacy of her own thoughts.

They neared a small outpost along the road near Cambridge. It wasn't difficult to tell that the place was infested with super mutants, if the hanging bags of dripping gore and various rotted body parts were any indication. He was eager to get a move on away from the place, but he noticed his companion seemed transfixed by the old outpost.

"Been here before?" he asked.

Of course, 'before' meant in a time long ago before the bombs fell, a time that he could only dream about. He liked to do that sometimes, ask her about places before the war. It helped him paint a better picture, he liked to think.

"Must have been nice to hang around here without being sniped," he'd say at the park. "Did everyone seriously learn calculus back then?" He'd ask in Cambridge, finding no shortage of textbooks lying around the classrooms and libraries. "What, were you planning for an invasion of mathletes?"

Deacon really was fascinated by the Old World. And of course, he'd rather she spoke about that time than bottle it up and put it away, like a jar of preserves on the shelf. He didn't want her to forget, and most of her companions were too scared to ask, afraid to upset her.

Of course, she was tougher than that, Deacon knew. He also knew firsthand the hurt that followed trying to forget your own history, no one around knowing who you really were, what you came from. It was like… well, it was like living a lie.

He didn't want that for her.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "Fraternal Outpost 115. I came here… with Nate, once. They helped out veterans and their families. He was supposed to give a speech in Concord the day the bombs fell, and the people at this outpost wanted to bring him here for a speech, as well. We got a letter in the mail about it."

Deacon nodded quietly. She only talked about her deceased husband on occasion, but by the way she did, he knew exactly the kind of man he was. Humble, kind, someone that other people looked up to. A war hero, who did what was right and carried his head high with few regrets.

What little human emotion Deacon seemed to have left in him these days reared its ugly head as he couldn't help but compare himself to him… to Nate. He didn't even know why he felt the need, it must be some internal thing wired into his brain. He'd shut it off it he could've, but for once, found himself unable.

Nate was everything that Deacon could never be. Pure and good, worthy of a long and happy life. It really was fucking terrible what had happened to the man… not to mention his family.

Deacon knew he didn't deserve any of those things. Happiness, admiration, a long life. A family. He'd lost his chance for all that a long time ago.

Wanderer continued past the outpost, and he followed without a word, thoughts swarming. The Polymer Labs were only a few blocks away from the outpost, so it didn't take them very long to reach the destination.

The building was rather plain, two stories high, and fairly unassuming. When they stepped inside, both Wanderer Deacon's hands moved for their weapon as they were greeted cheerfully straight away by a Mr. Handy robot, a feminine cheerful voice bidding them welcome. They relaxed some when the robot did not start attacking.

"Welcome to the Cambridge Polymer Labs, where employment opportunities await in the field of scientific research. Shall we begin your application now?"

Wanderer and Deacon exchanged a glance.

"Sure, I'm game," Wanderer told the robot.

"Wonderful, let's begin the process! Due to the increased demands for staff in all fields, we have condensed the employment test accordingly. Question one: Do you possess previous experience with polymer synthesis?"

"Yes," lied Wanderer.

Deacon supposed everyone lied for interviews anyway. To think, if he'd been around back then, he might've been able to land any job he wanted, with a couple of stretched truths and fun little fabricated fictions.

"Calculating test results," spouted off the robot. "I am pleased to offer you the position of 'researcher'. Expect a bright future in Polymer Research."

Deacon stepped forward, and the robot interviewer piped the same question. "Do you possess previous experience with polymer synthesis?"

"Sounds like you need me regardless, so let's get down to brass tacks," he answered coolly.

"Calculating test results. I am pleased to offer you the position of 'Sales Coordinator. Expect a loquacious future in haggling for military funding. Would the two of you like the Orientation before beginning your work, here?"

"We'd love an Orientation," said Deacon with a grin. This was getting to be a pretty fun retrieval mission. He'd just scored a sales job and everything!

"Why not," Wanderer agreed with a sigh.

"Wonderful," the robot agreed, and hovered to the left towards a dilapidated hallway.

Wanderer raised a teasing brow, turning to meet his shaded eyes. "Sales Coordinator, huh? You would make a pretty good salesman, now that I think about it."

"Are you kidding, Wanda? I'd be the best salesman to ever sale. Uh, sell."

She chuckled, following the robot. Deacon kept his eye out for any unwanted enemies or traps; old buildings such as this tended to be a common place to find ferals, who liked to sneak up on their victims. Besides the robot, the place seemed deserted.

The robot led them into what looked to be an old conference room, with one half of the room filled with scattered debris and garbage, the other half completely caved in from the ceiling. They took a seat politely as the robot took position at the front of the room to begin the lecture.

"The genesis of Cambridge Polymer Labs lies in the research of a brilliant graduate students. Jon Elwood, Erika Woolum, and Wilfred Bergman met during their time together at CIT. This slide shows them together at their graduation," the robot stated, gesturing with a mechanical arm to the blank chalkboard.

Deacon's interest piqued when he heard the name Bergman, and Wanderer's did the same. He was the supposed owner of the Code Defender login credentials, according to PAM.

"Their research into nucleostrictive and piezoelectric polymers caught the attention of Col. George Kemp in the fall of 2073."

He wasn't entirely convinced that the robot was making half of this up.

The robot continued rattling off its speech while the two listened politely. Once their lecture was finished, Wanderer and Deacon followed the Mr. Handy back out through the main room, towards the labs.

"Where do you think we'll find those credentials?" she whispered, shoving aside a pile of old bones that blocked the doorway.

"If I had to guess, probably in someone's office or near a terminal," he mused. "That seems like our best bet."

"Staff must be dressed appropriately at all times," the robot informed them as they were led through a small locker room, complete with showers and neatly stacked uniforms, both of which covered in filth. In the next room was a series of control consoles, next to which their robot guide stopped abruptly, spinning around to face them.

"The research staff will greet you on the other side," it informed them cheerily, extending a robotic arm to gesture towards the laboratories. "Please enter the clean room and proceed to the labs to complete your tour. Thank you for your attention, and welcome to the team!"

The robot fell silent as Wanderer and Deacon exchanged a dubious look.

"Why do I feel like this is a terrible idea?" she asked no one in particular, spotting several more skeletons in decayed lab coats in the next room. She stepped through the threshold anyway, her companion close behind. Right on cue, the doors sealed shut behind them.

"I have been instructed by our Director to enforce mandatory overtime due to contamination. Consequently, staff will not be allowed to leave the labs until the Piezonucleic Plating Project has been completed. Please report to the project lead for specific research assignment."

"Great," Wanderer grumbled as she tried to force the door open. "Is it too late to mention I lied about having experience with polymer synthesis?" she called, her question answered as the Mr. Handy ignored her and hovered back over to the main hall to greet potential new applicants.

"Look on the bright side, at least we can add this to our resumé," Deacon quipped.

The laboratories, they soon discovered, were completely overrun with feral ghouls. The slamming of the laboratory door seemed to have started them as ferals began to charge from every direction.  
Wanderer tossed a frag grenade into one cluster of ferals, knocking the limbs off most of them but sending the laboratory equipment scattering everywhere.

Deacon found her side, and she his. They fought through the waves of ferals together, covering eachother's open sides and shouting off the direction the monsters came from. It was a perfect synchrony with which they fought, side by side.

"D, check your six," she barked, Deliverer's muzzle sending a bullet straight through a feral's head. He spun to meet the feral that had charged behind him, this one a particularly ugly beast, large mutated lumps all over its body. A sickly green hue emanated from it, and Deacon heard Wanderer's Geiger Counter click excitedly as the monster neared them.

He took aim with his rifle, firing endlessly at the ambling creature, his bullets neither stopping nor slowing the feral. All of a sudden it was flying at him, it's sickly green hands clawing for his face. He lurched the rifle back, and using the makeshift bayonet that Wanderer had quite literally duct taped to the weapon, shoved the blade dead center through its neck.

It fell dead instantly.

Once the last feral had finally fallen dead, Wanderer holstered her pistol and cracked her knuckles. "Let's get to work."

It had taken what felt like hours, but Deacon and Wanderer had finally located Bergman's terminal which had indeed revealed his Code Defender login credentials, and completed the Piezonucleic experiment to earn their freedom. They hurriedly left the building and got back on the road after the robot had congratulated them and presented them with their bonuses, eager to leave the laboratories far behind them.

Now that they'd retrieved the credentials Patriot needed, Wanderer could only wonder what plan Desdemona would come up with next.

When they returned to the Church, Railroad HQ was abuzz with energy. Where resigned silence lingered before now Railroad agents chattered excitedly amongst themselves, whispers that Wanderer didn't need to hear to understand. The Railroad had finally infiltrated the Institute, it had simply never been done before. No one in HQ knew what would come next, least of all Wanderer.

Desdemona and Carrington she found quietly conversing amongst themselves. As she approached, Deacon left her side to make the rounds around HQ: checking in with everyone as he often liked to do. Carrington stood and walked back to his desk when Wanderer approached.

"Excellent work," Desdemona began as Wanderer handed her the holotape, not bothering to wait for her to begin. "On our side we've gone through your report. It was… extraordinary. So many pieces of the puzzle clicked into place."

"It was something to behold," Wanderer agreed.

"Our final analysis indicates that the Institute is far more formidable than we ever feared or imagined. If we stage a mass breakout, Patriot's thirteen synths will undoubtedly be the last we ever save. Instead, we use this chance… to rescue all the synths. Every last one of them," Desdemona declared.

 _Yes… of course,_ Wanderer thought. She shouldn't have expected any different; of course Desdemona would want to strike quickly while their infiltrator still had access to the Institute.

"Is such a thing even possible?" Wanderer asked slowly, almost awed by Desdemona's steely resolution.

"I don't know. What I do know is that we can't waste this opportunity. The Institute will never let their slaves go without a fight."

That much was very true.

"So," Desdemona continued, "The heart of our problem is manpower. Even if we call in all our agents, and we will, we won't be able to hold our own against the Institute for long. Talk with this synth you spoke to, Z1-14. If the synths down there want freedom, they must fight and risk their lives to earn it."

Wanderer shook her head. The plan still seemed like a long shot.

"Even with synth allies, is that going to be enough to fight the Institute?" at her question, Desdemona's eyes darkened. The woman lit a cigarette and, for the first time since the two women had known each other, offered one to Wanderer.

Wanderer accepted.

"The synths greatly outnumber the scientists. If enough of them rebel, the chaos would be unprecedented. Then, we use that turmoil to evacuate everyone we can."

"And… if not enough of the synths rebel to our side?" she asked, the smoke somewhat dulling her nerves.

"They will rebel. It will work, because it must," Desdemona said simply. Wanderer watched the woman for a moment, before her gaze fell to the floor, and back up to the agents all around HQ.

The Railroad agents continued their work, because they must. Desdemona acted with cool confidence because she must. Wanderer stood to leave.

"One more thing, Wanderer."

She turned. Desdemona stared through her. Any trace of emotion in the woman's face had disappeared- sometimes Wanderer thought their leader was harder to read than even Deacon.

She waited, brow raised in anticipation.

"As much as we owe Patriot, we can't be certain how committed he is. If he learns we're willing to kill to free synths, he may not have the stomach for it. Get what you need from him and cut him loose. Good luck. We're all with you."

Wanderer's stomach dropped. Once their only ally within the Institute, now a loose end simply to be tied up.

She turned and left.

Night had fallen and Wanderer carried exhaustion with every step, but she still didn't sleep in the crypt, alongside the other Railroad agents. It felt wrong, and even if she tried, the musty smells from the crypt invaded her throat and forced sleep from her.

So, she slept aboveground, finding some nook or space where she could sleep alone without fear of discovery from undesirables. Even irradiated as it was, the Commonwealth air was still preferable to the dust-filled crypt.

Wanderer followed the path through HQ's concealed underground escape tunnel, and surfaced back aboveground. It was a busy area where the escape tunnel led out, which helped Railroad agents avoid Institute detection. Unfortunately, it also meant that raiders weren't far away from their backyard; she had to move carefully.

The tunnel let out not far from the main river. She followed the walkway, lined with docked boats both large and small until she found it: a small, peaceful cottage tucked away from the more dangerous looking areas of Boston commons.

It was the perfect little shelter.

The cottage wasn't large at all. Upon entering, she stood in the kitchen, with a countertop that spanned about five paces.

Next to the kitchen was a little living area, with a russet green sofa faded by time, a television set, and a radio still placed neatly on the tabletop. Hanging above the television set there was a dingy painting of a green clearing, surrounded by lush trees and grass.

She could still picture the old cottage as it was before the war, a pleasant little space where its inhabitants lounged, listening to the boats on the water meander along.

A ball of soft grey fur surrounded Wanderer's ankles, meowing at her with urgency.

"Still lurking out here, little one?" she asked with a smile, bending down to scratch behind the cat's ears.

She'd discovered the little cat alone here when she had found this place after joining the Railroad. Every time since she'd returned, the little creature still lingered there, desperately pushing itself against her legs and hoping for attention.

Wanderer stepped over the fallen shelves and disheveled drawers with dresses spilling out onto the floor, picking up an enamel bucket on the way and positioning it on the floor. She reclined back onto the old sofa. The cat eagerly followed, jumping onto the sofa and curling up right with her, purring happily. She feigned an annoyed groan at the animal but didn't otherwise object stroking the cat's fur and allowing her body to relax and her eyes to drift shut. Wanderer didn't bother to remove any of her armor before falling asleep; she had mastered the art of sleeping with one eye open, to be ready for a quick getaway at a moment's notice.

The last thing she remembered was the sound of the cat's purrs, the rise and fall from its small furry body against her arm.


	6. Chapter 6

**Guest- Thanks for your review! I'm glad that you're enjoying the Railroad/Institute conflict, there's definitely more of that to come. Unfortunately this story won't have a lot of BoS action but my other Fallout story will (I don't want to touch that one until SG is finished.) Lots more is definitely on the way for this story, hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 _Faces, staring up at her in admiration as she spoke. Settlers listening to her designate job assignments in Sanctuary. Members of the jury listening intently as she presented evidence to the court._

 _White, the sickly white of the Institute, clean and sterile._

 _The reflection of her own face in Deacon's sunglasses; more aged than she remembered, with dark circles the fresh wrinkles of a woman soon to be entering her thirties._

 _Her baby boy's soft face, quiet coos, watching as it slowly became the face of an old man, slowly but still much too fast. Her mother had said she grew up fast, too. Not as fast as Shaun._

 _Wanderer_

 _Dr. Carrington's words, "It's not uncommon for the mind to become… fragmented, after serious emotional trauma. Give your mind time to recover, and let me get on with my work, yes?"_

 _The pounding of blood in her ears as she watched her first nuclear detonation, frozen in fear as the lift descended while Nate held their son._

 _His gravelly voice… Kellogg's voice. "Open it."_

 _No, no no no, not again. Please, no!_

 _Trapped, bits of ice all over, colder than death, she could only watch. The gunshot reverberated in her ear as Shaun was ripped from Nate's limp arms._

She could hardly wake up quickly enough, shooting up from the couch, the cat in her lap bolting away in a panic.

Gasping for air, Wanderer couldn't seem to remember how to breathe, the air stolen from her lungs and a weight of a suit of power armor on her chest. Beads of cold sweat broke through her skin, her body began to shake.

All of a sudden, Deacon was there, picking up the enamel bucket she'd placed by the sofa and guiding her to it. She retched into the bucket, the contents of her stomach coming up all at once. She could feel hands moving her hair out of the way, wiping away the sweat that had beaded onto her forehead.

 _Deacon's hands._

She finally stopped retching, the bucket disappeared. The images of her husband's corpse frozen solid, jaw slack still burned in her mind. She rubbed her eyes as if it would wipe the images away.

She heard Deacon come back inside. Wanderer wasn't sure why he was here, how he'd gotten here, but wasn't terribly surprised that he'd followed her anyway. He had good timing, at least.

He handed her a can of water to rinse her mouth out, which she accepted gratefully.

It took a while to steady her breathing, but she was finally able to sit up straight and look at him. He was seated on the coffee table, watching her, hands clasped together so tight she could see the whiteness in his knuckles.

She knew he wouldn't ask about the nightmares. He never did.

"You followed me," she rasped accusingly, throat dry from her panic.

"This isn't exactly the safest place to have a lie down," he shot back.

Wanderer sighed. "It's better than puking my guts out in the middle of HQ as soon as I have a bad dream," she grumbled, turning away from him to lie back on the sofa. Her throat burned at the thought of it. The nightmares had ebbed somewhat in recent months, though every once in a while, the Vault came back to haunt her in her sleep.

Deacon didn't say anything at that.

She focused on her breathing, in and out, in and out. The little grey cat found her lap again, eager to comfort her as if the animal knew she'd been distressed.

"How long have you been here?" she asked without looking up.

"Half an hour, give or take," he replied. "It's only been three hours since you left. You weren't sleeping long."

Wanderer nodded wordlessly, rubbing the remainder of sleep from her eyes as the cat stretched on her lap. Three hours was as good as she was going to get, at this point.

After she'd first emerged aboveground, Wanderer would have been perturbed by the idea of someone watching her sleep. It became apparent though that the more dangerous the Commonwealth proved itself to be, the more she appreciated having someone there to watch her back. Deacon- he was always watching, she knew.

"You know D, most girls don't take kindly to being watched in their sleep."

"I wasn't watching, honest!" he said defensively, the hint of a joke in his voice. She shook her head, smiling faintly. "Okay, fine, maybe I was watching, but can you really blame me?"

Wanderer guffawed, resisting the urge to throw the cat in his face purely because it wouldn't be kind to the cat. She laughed, the nightmare finally dissipating, even if only for now.

"Nice little place you've found here," Deacon said, still seated across from her on the coffee table. "Even if it is uncomfortably close to raider territory." He had donned his black wig since she'd last seen him.

It made him look younger.

"It is peaceful," Wanderer agreed. "It was my mother's, for a time."

Deacon examined the room again, as if the revelation had shed the little cottage in a whole new light. He considered the old radio set, the old paintings, the green dress of a woman still lying on the floor, unmoved for hundreds of years.

"She moved here when we found out her illness was terminal," Wanderer continued. "Always wanted to go somewhere tropical to live out the rest of her days. When she found out she was going to die, this was the next best thing."

She strained to remember that time, when life was so different. It was difficult to remember, more difficult than it should have been. Even her mother's face was a blur, now.

Wanderer rubbed her temples and let a sigh of frustration escape her. The memories were crisp and clear, yet it was like watching them play out in her mind through a fogged glass.

"It's peaceful," Deacon said quietly, interrupting her thoughts. "It was more peaceful before nuclear war, I'd imagine."

He'd moved to her side on the sofa without her noticing. The brush of his arm against her shoulder was what jolted her back to the present, as the expression she gave him was that of complete surprise.

She was surprised how the simple brushing of their arms had frozen her so, surprised at the realization of just how damn much she missed actual human contact- _real_ human contact. She was surprised when the small motion reminded her of how she felt when Nate had drawn her into his arms, squeezed her tightly to comfort her.

She was surprised when she realized this touch had felt more real than even that. Yes, so real, that was the only way to describe it.

"Deacon," she whispered aloud before her mind could stop the words.

 _No, it would be wrong,_ Wanderer knew, she couldn't ask him. _He would say no… he wouldn't want-_

Perhaps he could see something in her eyes, perhaps he felt something akin to what she did when they touched. Maybe he was just a damn mind reader and had failed to mention it to her before- whatever it was didn't matter.

He reached for her hand just like he had in the train car on the way to Cambridge, just for her hand at first, and then it was all at once he had taken her in his arms, and him in hers.

He had a narrower frame than what she remembered of Nate's but was still warm, comforting. She had bunched up the neck of his old t-shirt in her right fist, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The scent of leather from his armor still lingered on his clothes.

All too soon it was over, she had pulled away, afraid to overstep her welcome.

"I should get going," she stammered too quickly, "I need to go back there to infiltrate, I should go meet with Patriot."

Deacon straightened his sunglasses that had become lopsided in their embrace. They had already decided she should relay to and from the Institute through different locations that couldn't be traced to the Railroad. He watched as she stood, adjusting the straps of her armor.

"Wanda?"

Wanderer stopped, turned once more to meet his gaze, seeming almost bewildered.

"Be careful in there."

After relaying back into the Institute, Wanderer had made a beeline for her terminal. She sent a message to Liam, setting up their rendezvous point and jumped in the shower to scrub the dirt from her hair.

It was a luxury she had missed from the old world, and was grateful to have access to again. Wanderer would have to make sure to squeeze in as many showers as she could throughout the duration of her infiltration, she thought.

When she returned, a message from Liam blinked on the screen. She pressed through the notification to reveal his reply.

' _Same place as last time.'_

Liam was waiting for her in the supply closet when she arrived, spooked by how urgently she'd opened the sliding door. She'd startled him, clearly.

"Did you get me what we talked about?" he asked carefully.

"I got your username and password," she replied, thumbing the holotape from her jumper pocket. Liam laughed nervously, as if he could scarcely believe it.

"You Railroad guys really deliver, you know? Hooking that ancient tech up to the modern terminals is going to be seriously time consuming, even with that password. Hand it over, and I'll get started."

"Here you go," she pressed the holotope into his outstretched hand.

"Great. Wonderful," he said, almost giddy with excitement. "Listen, I need a favor. Z1-14 is working the atrium again. Can you give him an update? It's safer if you do it, someone will notice if I'm always the one meeting with him."

"I'll find him right now," Wanderer agreed.

And so, heavy with Desdemona's orders, Wanderer set out to fulfill her next task.

She found Z1 in the atrium, near where she had met him the first time. She took a seat expectantly, thinking that perhaps Z1 hadn't seen her. Wanderer fiddled with the setting on her Pip-Boy, waiting. She watched the synth work, as he cleaned the atrium and she was struck with pity.

They truly were slaves, here. She had been aware of the synth predicament before but now she sat right here, in the heart of the Institute surrounded by synths doing the biddings of their human masters.

She was unnerved.

Z1 approached her under the guise of mopping the atrium floor in the spot next to her.

"We must speak quickly. We cannot risk being discovered," Z1 whispered urgently, keeping his eyes from meeting hers. "I have made arrangements, and I can get the thirteen synths into position. But… tell me, do you think Mr. Binet's plan will actually work?"

Z1 froze as a Courser paced by them, paying no mind, while Wanderer remembered one of Deacon's many lessons.

 _"Don't act suspicious, and you won't get caught,"_ he'd told her.

"I actually wanted to discuss that with you, Z1. The Railroad wants to use the opportunity to rescue everyone. The synths will all have to fight for it, for the plan to be successful."

Z1 was silent for about thirty seconds, contemplating her words while he mopped the space of flooring behind her.

"…And I thought Mr. Binet's plan was too ambitious," he finally mumbled. "Of course, I'd fight for my freedom… and I know of a few others that might, as well. But to face all the guards? Perhaps… if we stand up openly to the scientists, more of my people would join us."

"Yes," he said again, his voice gaining confidence. "Even if most don't join the fight, certainly there are many others who've been waiting their whole lives for this! We should be prepared, though… some of the synths will fight against us."

"All people want to be free," she told him gently. "The synths just need the opportunity to take their freedom. Have faith, Z1."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he'd stopped mopping and was watching her curiously.

"If the Railroad inspires everyone like you do, the SRB is wise to fear you. Meet me here tomorrow, at this time. If I don't make our appointment, assume the worst."

The two confirmed plans all without meeting each other's eyes, agreed not to tell Liam about their new plan, and Wanderer took her leave.

Her heart beat anxiously in her chest, thoughts swirling. Wanderer gazed at the large tree in the center of the atrium. Beautiful and green, leaves spinning and lush. It reminded her of the tree in Sanctuary Hills, at least how it had looked before left dead and bare by nuclear war.

It was surprising, as she realized how much she missed simply looking at beautiful trees. It seems the Institute was preserving some of the beauty of life, after all.

"Mrs. Farren," someone called as she was interrupted from her thoughts. She turned; a courser had called her name, a different one than had walked by her and Z1 a few moments ago.

"Yes, what is it?" she asked, wondering anxiously if their plan had been overheard after all.

"Father has been awaiting your return. He has asked that I escort you to him, if you wouldn't mind."

He was seated on a small chair next to his desk when she entered his quarters. He smiled when they met eyes, surprising her. The smile he gave her was utterly genuine, a warm expression as he stood to greet her with a "Mother." It was so different a reaction than she was expecting from the man she'd imagined now as callous, cruel.

Wanderer nodded a brief thanks to the Courser who had escorted her as he took his leave. Father beckoned towards the seat opposite him. She accepted it, taking a seat near him.

"It's good to see you back here, mother. Now that you've had a chance to see the Institute firsthand, what do you think?" he asked.

"I'm not sure…" Wanderer said honestly. She remembered the synthetic gorillas, the beautiful tree in the atrium, hell, even the molecular relay that had allowed her to infiltrate the Institute in the first place. "You've got technology here that I never dreamed possible. It is…fascinating."

Father seemed pleased with her reply.

"I'm glad you can appreciate what we have accomplished. None of it has been easy. Ultimately, all our knowledge and resources are focused on a single goal. That goal is best summarized by our motto: Mankind, redefined." He sighed. "Unfortunately, no advancement comes without additional setbacks. As remarkable as our synths are, they can be… dangerous without proper supervision."

They were approaching controversial waters, now. The subject of the synths and their freedom was where their familial bond could be rendered unsteady.

"If the synths are intelligent and self-aware, why shouldn't they have a right to free will?"

He scoffed, as if he'd been inconvenienced to explain some simple matter to a child.

"However closely the synths may approximate human behavior, they are still our creations. When you see what I have to show you, I think you'll agree that we know what is best for our synths. A rogue synth has taken over the raider gang at Libertalia. His memories have been erased and his memory altered. He believes he's a man named Gabriel. Under his leadership, the raiders have taken many innocent lives. I've dispatched a Courser to Libertalia. I'd like you to join him, and reclaim that synth."

"His memories were erased?" Wanderer asked.

"Yes," Father said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. "Those idealistic radicals who call themselves the Railroad are behind it. We'll deal with them in time, but for now the priority is to reclaim that synth before more harm is done."

His words froze her to the spot. Father hadn't mentioned the Railroad before, and she'd assumed that he would have been keeping tabs on her, would know whose help she'd enlisted to infiltrate the Institute.

 _We'll deal with them in time._

He would expect her to gather and provide information, perhaps. Maybe he'd even ask her to eliminate the Railroad herself.

If she was alone, she would have laughed bitterly at the imaginary request.

"Now, you should get moving. Many people are in danger, and a delay could cost lives."

Of all the missions Father could have asked her to do, incapacitating a raider gang that had been terrorizing innocents was fairly tame. At least, he hadn't asked her to storm Railroad HQ and kill everything that moved.

 _Yet._

She wasn't sure about reclaiming this synth, though, and working alongside a Courser, no less. If it was what helped her gain Father's trust, then so be it.

After relaying to the site Father had directed her to, Wanderer found the Courser waiting for her, already surrounded by a plethora of raider corpses, fanned about him as if he'd shot them all down in one blow.

Like the other Coursers she'd seen, he wore a black leather coat, and was shaded by metallic looking sunglasses. It was the same Courser that Father had sent to escort her, earlier.

"You must be the Courser I'm supposed to meet," she said. She hoped Deacon wasn't spying on her, for once. There'd be no coming back from reports of her working alongside one of the most feared agents of the Institute.

 _No survivors this time,_ she thought.

"Yes ma'am. Designation X6-88. I've already neutralized the perimeter guard," he informed her, voice completely monotone.

"Ah… yes, I can see that," she said awkwardly, unsure how to make casual conversation with a Courser.

"Just give the word, and we can start the assault on the main flotilla," X6-88 said.

With that, the two proceeded through the warehouse that led to the flotilla on the water. Wanderer was horrified instantly; it was a grisly sight only topped by the Pickman gallery. The sights she'd seen since waking from cryosleep were usually disturbing, but this was on a whole new level.

She'd never seen so many bodies hanging in one place. Raiders often liked to impale severed heads on a spike and leave them near the entrance of a base to warn off intruders. This, though; dozens of bodies, old and rotting as well as fresh and bloody. It may have very well been over a hundred of them, but Wanderer didn't have the stomach to count them.

The stench was the worst part.

"Let's get this over with," she said, jaw clenched. X6 acknowledged her with a polite "Ma'am."

With her refined aim and X6's unequalled Courser abilities, the two made short work of most of the raiders. They followed the trail, hopping from ship to ship, killing everything that stood in their way until they reached the final ship in the center of the harbor.

They climbed higher. _Gabriel must be hiding in the Captain's cabin,_ she thought. They caught a raider guard outside the door unawares- he had barely enough time to shout "What-" before she sent a 10mm through his skull. She was about to ascend the final ladder before X6 stopped her.

"Hold up a moment, ma'am. There is something important I need to tell you."

"What is it, X6?" she asked, curious.

"I'm going to give you B5-92's reset code. If he hears the code phrase, it'll reset his cognitive processes and make him docile. You'll need to say 'B5-92, initialize factory reset,' followed by the authorization code 'gamma-7-1-epsilon.' Once he's shut down, I can transport him safely back to the Institute."

"Alright," she said curtly. Of course, Father would have instructed the Courser to make sure she was the one who reset the synth. He wanted to make sure she'd have the stomach for it, most likely. She already knew a little about the synth recall codes; they were common knowledge among the Railroad.

"He might not be alone up there," X6 warned. "That's all, ma'am. Ready when you are."

They found Gabriel at the highest point in the flotilla, in the captain's cabin, surrounded by fellow raiders. Everything about his body language screamed fear, tucked into a corner, gun aimed for that perfect spot between her eyes, his expression wild with terror.

"Well done, very impressive!" Gabriel shouted tauntingly, though he didn't leave his corner. "Just like me, you've made it to the top."

Wanderer scoffed. She was nothing like this man; she said nothing.

"So, tell me… is the Institute so desperate for resources that it's stealing plunder from honest, hard-working Commonwealth gangs?"

Wanderer had to suppress an eye roll as the raiders around him cheered a note of agreement. Honest was the last word she'd use to describe this gang, she thought, remembering the strung-up corpses of settlers around the flotilla.

She resisted the urge to taunt him back. Disengaging her emotions from the situation would make this much easier.

"B5-92, initialize factory reset. Authorization Gamma-7-1-Epsilon," she barked. Without missing a beat, Gabriel's eyes went blank as he slumped over still on his feet, the same way the young synth Shaun had.

Gabriel's raider gang began to panic, clearly horrified at the display.

"Boss? You okay?!"

"Gabriel? Can you hear me?"

"Shit, they did something to him! Take them out!"

By the time the raiders had regained their footing and aimed their weapons, X6 and Wanderer were already shooting. In no time, the two stood alone, victorious.

"This is X6-88, ready to relay with reclaimed synth B5-92 and Monica Farren."

"I'm glad to see you return safely," Father said when she returned back to the Institute. "I know the task was difficult, but I needed you to see firsthand how dangerous a rogue synth could be."

Wanderer shook her head. "Gabriel and his gang were sick bastards, hanging their victims up like trophies, but… there's still something I don't understand," she said.

Father raised a brow, waiting for her to elaborate.

"I mean, what makes a synth different up there, different enough to make them more dangerous than every other raider or scavver? They seem… indistinguishable, from everyone else. What if Gabriel was just another human?"

It was a valid question, she believed. Gabriel's access to independent choices had freed him from the subjugation of the Institute. In theory, every person would have the ability to make decisions whether they are good or evil; being a synth shouldn't have any influence over that.

Father sighed; his whole demeanor changed, as if her question had been more than he'd like to answer. She could read the frustration on his expression.

"We have… not fully discovered the capabilities of the synths, you see. This… this is what makes them so dangerous. To you, to me, and to everyone else."

"Their capabilities?" she asked. Father nodded.

"Although the synths were made with nothing more but the human machine in mind, our latest research suggests they may be more tenacious than their human counterparts. We wanted the synths to physically withstand the dangers that a nuclear wasteland would present; to be cohesive when everything else falls apart," he said grimly. "It seems that we have made some miscalculations along the way of synth production. Of course, setbacks are always a given when expanding on unknown technology," he added quickly.

Wanderer didn't know what to say, didn't know what she could say. The synths, of course had been constructed to do the Institute's bidding and blend in perfectly in the process. If what Father said was true, the synths _might_ be a danger after all. Before, they were no more a danger than a stranger one encounters, human or otherwise, even if they were capable of being programmed with directives.

But this? Unknown capabilities, that even the _Institute_ didn't understand? It was a crucial piece of the puzzle, one that didn't even make sense.

Father seemed to notice her discomfort and changed the subject.

"While we can do nothing for Gabriel's victims, we can at least take comfort in the knowledge that the threat has been removed. But, enough about that. The task is done and you've returned our synth safely to us. I couldn't have hoped for a better outcome."

She just nodded quietly, unsure how to process the information she'd just been given. Father sighed.

"Go, mother. Get some rest. I'll send for you if I have anything else."

She left his quarters, unsure where her feet would take her. Wanderer had no appetite, and the questions brewing in her mind would surely make resting difficult. She wandered the long white halls, meandering, lost in thought.

She had been stewing for a long while when she realized, after checking the time on her Pip-Boy, she was supposed to be meeting with Z1 any minute. Wanderer rushed to the atrium as quickly as she could, stopping by her room first to replace her bloodied leathers with a clean white jumper.

Sure enough, he was waiting for her in the spot they'd spoken in the day prior, eyes darting anxiously. The synth was so obviously nervous about being caught, he was more likely to reveal their location than anything else.

"Any updates?" she asked as she approached him. Might as well make this quick.

"I asked my friends if they'd take up arms for their freedom," Z1 said, speaking so quickly she could scarcely make out his words. "I was surprised at the number of volunteers. Perhaps once the fighting begins, many others will join us."

"That's great news," she replied genuinely. If the synths were finally going to take their freedom, she would be glad to play a part in it.

Doubt seeped in as she remembered her conversation with Father.

"Yes," Z1 agreed excitedly. "But, we will fight and die very quickly unless we have weapons. A lot of them."

"I can see what I can do about smuggling weapons inside the Institute for your friends, Z1, but I don't know if it's going to be enough."

Z1 nodded. "I have a plan of my own. The Institute's always expanding. Excavation just completed on one of the sublevels. The mining equipment has been packed into crates, and they haven't been moved yet. That equipment has everything we need." Z1 paused, finally stopping to take a breath. He met her eyes for the first time since they'd begun talking.

"How do you feel about killing some guards?"

"I'll do it, if it's necessary," she said hesitantly. Making too much of a scene too soon would put their whole plan into jeopardy.

Z1 sighed, almost regretfully. "We could think of no other way," he simply said. "After you eliminate the guards, we'll move the supplies and blow up the tunnels behind us. To the SRB it will be a tragic construction accident that killed many synths. Rare, but not unheard of. And then, our 'dead friends' can assemble the weapons we need.

"Alright Z1, I'll get it done," she promised him. Z1 nodded and, taking another glance around him, resumed his cleaning duties.

She found the tunnel Z1 had specified, and crept inside. Crates lined the walls, synths quietly carrying out maintenance and taking inventory.

Wanderer watched the patrols. Gen 2's, three teams of two to make six guards in total. She lifted her coat, felt for Deliverer, making sure she knew where the rest of her weapons were.

"Nothing to report, ma'am," one of the guards informed her as she passed. Wanderer winced; hopefully Glory wouldn't find out about this next part of the plan. The other Railroad agent was adamant about fighting for all synths, even the Gen 1's and 2's.

Wanderer dropped a pulse mine in the path of two of the guards about to turn the corner. Ducking behind a crate a few feet away, she waited for the synths to trip up the mine.

The whole storage unit went on high alert as the mine exploded, taking out the two synths that had turned the corner. Wanderer sprang into action before the synths could catch up with what was happening.

Another guard approached from around the corner, she ducked out of the way of its laser rifle, rolled in close on her knee and shot it through the chest.

Three remaining, she thought.

Footsteps behind, she snapped over her shoulder and took the next guard out with two shots to the head, and aimed to take out another that sprinted straight for her, but she didn't need to pull the trigger as the Gen 3 workers had grouped together, all furiously lunging for the guard with their knives. Most of the Gen 3's had rushed to aid her.

As Wanderer whipped her head around searching for the last synth, she was tugged back suddenly as a synth jumped from behind a storage container, forcing the breath from her lungs with a hard hit to her spine. Wanderer choked as Deliverer was knocked from her hands- she reached for anything, anything to help her.

One of the Gen 3's that had been doing inventory gestured from the corner of her vision. Wanderer reached out for her, a young woman, tawny brown hair with fear in her eyes.

The synth woman, searching for something to be useful, found a laser pistol from one of the guard corpses and tossed in her direction. The weapon fell just short of Wanderer's reach as the synth dragged her forward.

Wanderer twisted in the guard's grip, grabbed the laser pistol, and shot it through the knee of the guard, severing its leg from the knee down. She flew forward as the synth stumbled forward, grabbed Deliverer, and fired at the guard, knocking it down before it could draw its weapon.

"Thank you, stranger," one of the synths said as the last guard fell. "You should leave. Soon this will all be under rubble."

Another synth thanked her excitedly. "Tell Z1 we will fight when the time comes!"

"Remember Z1's plan, everyone! Grab everything that can be of use!"

She bid the synths farewell, and without a second glance, escaped before anyone noticed her.

In her hurry to escape, Wanderer had taking a wrong turn and unsure of where she was, followed another path back to the atrium. Wanderer passed by a door, one of the larger doors that led to the Institute's main divisions. Glancing up at the logo, Wanderer stopped.

The Synth Retention Bureau.

 _"The SRB is wise to fear you,"_ Z1 had told her. She'd only been inside once before, when Father had asked her to meet his colleagues, one of them being Dr. Ayo. A curt, short-tempered man he was, one of the few she'd met in the Institute thus far to show his mistrust for her so openly.

She pushed through the doors and into the SRB.

The labs were fairly empty for once; a Courser or two patrolling, but neither of them paid her any mind. She passed the offices, passed the shooting range. A ramp leading downwards at the back of the room, Wanderer descended.

There was a larger room down underneath, a terminal near the back, but the first thing she noticed were armored legs. A body, lying back on some sort of platform. She stepped closer.

It was Gabriel. Alive, but he sure as hell didn't look it. He was impaled on a spiked platform, body splayed but kept in place by restraints. Though not dead, Gabriel's body seemed devoid of his spirit. What had they done to him?

Wanderer's mouth fell open in horror. She didn't know what she was seeing, she didn't know what to feel as her stomach dropped. Wanderer took the cowardly route and ran out of the SRB as quickly as possible.


	7. Chapter 7

Wanderer was roused from her sleep by an urgent knocking on the doors to her quarters. Frantically, she glanced at the clock: 6:37 A.M., it read.

Scrambling up from the soft sheets that always somehow felt softer in the morning, she searched for where she'd haphazardly thrown her clothes last night.

She had planned to travel back aboveground today to check in with Desdemona, and Deacon. She had made important strides in their plan to free the Institute's synths, and her fellow Railroad operatives would be anxious to hear about it.

Another part of her was afraid to return to the surface. Despite their differences, she was enjoying the occasional conversations with her son. Besides, her last interaction with Deacon had been more than a little awkward, so truth be told, she was anxious.

"I'm coming," she shouted as the knocking didn't cease when she was pulling on her jumper. Whoever it was finally ceased the pounding on her door.

When she opened the door, X6-88 stood patiently on the other side.

"Good morning, ma'am. I apologize for the intrusion. Father wants to see you as soon as possible," he said turning to leave again before she could ask any questions.

Wanderer sighed, wondering what possibly could have been so urgent that he couldn't let her sleep for another twenty minutes.

Most of the Institute's scientists were already up and about, ready for another day filled with testing and experimentation. She was honestly surprised they didn't get bored here, every day was nearly the same from what she'd seen. Everything in their lives revolved around their work.

She made the short trek to Father's quarters, a place she'd been frequenting more and more often. Lately, Wanderer had been finding little mementos left in her quarters, reminders of life before. The first time, it had been a vase, perfectly preserved, filled with real peonies, all shades of pink and purple.

Once there had been a baseball glove next to a set of baseball cards. She'd mentioned baseball to Shaun once, the one time he'd asked her about her old life. She had struggled to tell him about it, more due to her muddled mind than anything else.

Last night, she'd found a picture of Nate, complete in a little frame. She had no idea how Shaun had found such a thing, every picture and memory in her home had been destroyed. Perhaps he'd reclaimed it before she even awoke from the Vault. The picture had given her the strangest feeling of dread; she had turned it upside down and gone straight to bed.

She thought of Deacon, again. It was odd not having him around as much; they'd been practically inseparable since she had followed the Freedom Trail. More than his deft skills or useful advice, she did miss his clever quips and jokes.

"Look at that, you absolute moron!" she heard off to her left. Wanderer turned her head curiously to see the commotion.

A synth servant was mopping the hall next to the stairway, a balding scientist shouting into his ears.

"I'm sorry sir," stammered the synth. "I'll get to it right away, sir!"

"I mean, are you blind? The floor loos absolutely filthy!" the scientist shouted back. "You needn't even bother, you'll just make it worse. I should report you to Advanced Systems and have you reprogrammed!"

Wanderer wanted to interject, to stop the scientist somehow. She didn't know what could say.

She ducked her head and kept walking. Soon, the synths could rise up, and fight back.

"Ah, hello mother," Father greeted through the crack in his door before opening it fully to beckon her inside. "Please, do have a seat. I know it is early, but this is quite urgent indeed."

She took her usual seat as directed, breathing a deep sigh.

"Tell me mother," he began, not wasting any time on pleasantries, of course. "Tell me, what would you do when someone has stolen from you?" he asked, watching carefully for her answer.

Wanderer raised a brow. Was this some sort of test? Did Shaun find out about the synths in the tunnel who'd stolen materials for their weapons?

"That's a loaded question," she pointed out. "What's been stolen?"

Father sighed. "Institute property is not often taken from us. We cannot react lightly when it happens. The group that calls themselves 'the Railroad' has acquired several synths from the Institute, synths that had gone missing in recent months."

Wanderer suddenly became acutely aware of how she was holding herself. Did she seem too neutral? Did Father pick up on her frozen form, her inability to even formulate a response?

If he could tell, he did not show it.

"The Railroad no doubt means to _'free'_ these synths"- he said it with a clear roll of his eyes that showed his annoyance- "in their delusion that synths are somehow sentient beings."

Wanderer nodded, wary of the direction their conversation was headed. Father gave her a knowing glance.

"You've been in contact with the Railroad," he said simply, "so you're aware of their misguided beliefs."

"They're doing what they think is right," said Wanderer, unable to remain indifferent.

Father scoffed. "The Institute could mass produce toaster ovens, and the Railroad would foolishly seek to free them, as well."

She tried not to scowl. Deacon would be hearing about that one.

"Usually they are a minor nuisance, but lately they have become more emboldened," Father continued. "I'm afraid we've reached a point where a response is necessary."

Shit, this was finally happening… the moment Shaun would force her to either betray the Railroad or, likely, make an enemy of the Institute. To make an enemy of him.

"So… what do you intend to do?" she asked quietly.

"We have learned that these synths are located at Bunker Hill, we need to re-acquire them before the Railroad can hide them. It's important that we act on this soon, before the Railroad has any indication that we've tracked them."

Wanderer sat frozen, Father kept talking. "A Courser will be there to meet you as soon as possible. This will be just like how you retrieved Gabriel, but with four synths, though they will likely be far less dangerous."

"I'm off, then," she said, standing up quickly from her chair. "I'll see you soon… Shaun."

* * *

 **Hello there! If you've read up to this point and are enjoying the story please consider leaving a review. I don't get paid to write so I'm only motivated by the idea that someone may be enjoying my story. Are there any quests you want to see? More Deacon? Less Deacon? Don't be shy**

 **This is the conclusion of Act 1 of this story, so the tension is only going to go up from here.**


	8. Chapter 8

Wanderer relayed straight to the Old North Church. The Institute would be beginning their assault on Bunker Hill any minute, and Father would be expecting her there right alongside the Institute's forces.

She stormed through the scarcely used front entrance, breezing past the resting ghouls without a sound, through the puzzle gate where the Freedom Trail had once led her, where she'd spelled _'Railroad'_ and everything had finally started to change for the better. Drummer Boy stood near the entrance inside HQ, ready to alert her of any new dead drops but Wanderer breezed straight past him.

Wanderer glanced around the crypt. Deacon was nowhere in sight; she wondered briefly if he was elsewhere, on a mission. He usually had his way of finding her exactly when she needed him, but now, he wasn't here.

That concern could wait until later.

"Desdemona, I need to talk to you," she said urgently, forcing the woman's attention up from her makeshift planning table.

"What's going on?" Desdemona asked, intrigued by Wanderer's fervor.

Wanderer didn't waste a single second.

"The Institute knows about Bunker Hill. They're planning to recapture the synths there," she said, watching as their leader's expression fell into shock, and then frustration.

"Damn it," Desdemona cursed. "The timing couldn't be worse. The Old Man's been sitting on those four synths for too long... There's nowhere else that's safe we could put them. Maintaining your cover is vital, but this… the sacrifice is just too great."

Desdemona stared back up at Wanderer, the woman's eyes imploring.

"Wanderer. You must save those four synths. You're the only one who can get them to safety."

Wanderer shook her head. "I know Bunker Hill is an asset, but is this really worth risking my cover?" she asked doubtfully.

"Besides Stockton, we have a lot of good men there. Plus, the inevitable civilian casualties," Desdemona added. "It's just too much. Before we've never known when and where the Institute would strike us next. Now, we have a chance to turn the tables. This is an opportunity we can't waste."

Wanderer nodded, numb. This could destroy everything she'd built with her son. Desdemona continued.

"We wait until the enemy is in position and then we hit them. Hard. No one they send comes back alive except you. Understand?"

"Won't the Institute be suspicious if I'm the only one left?"

Desdemona leaned in a little closer, so only Wanderer could hear. "You're a lot tougher than anyone else in their outfit. If only one person could survive, it would be you. Any story you come up with wouldn't be contradicted."

Wanderer held back a sigh. This was going to be a difficult battle to play. She had to convince both sides of the battle that she was their ally…

No, she _was_ the Railroad's ally. The only side she had to convince was the Institute, Wanderer reminded herself.

Wanderer rubbed her temples. Her mind moved sluggishly, like it had sunk deep into a pit of molasses. This couldn't be real.

"We can't attack too early," Desdemona said, rousing Wanderer from her thoughts. "We need to draw them into the kill zone and then spring the trap."

"When am I supposed to spring the trap?"

"You'll know when," Desdemona said vaguely. "You'll probably have a Courser escort. You'll have to take him down. You've done it before, but it'll still be dangerous."

Strangely enough, taking down a Courser was the least of her worries, now.

"And if my cover is compromised?" Wanderer asked, fearing her leader's reply.

"Don't let that happen," Desdemona ordered. Wanderer nodded stiffly.

There was still no sign of Deacon, and there was no time to wait for him any longer. She had to get a move on, now.

Wanderer snuck out the back entrance, nerves prickling, and followed the road to Bunker Hill. She'd had just enough time with Drummer Boy's suggestion to snag a ballistic weave jacket to blend in with the civilians in Bunker Hill. Judging by the eerie quiet that loomed, the Institute had not begun the assault without her. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Wanderer found the Courser waiting for her a few houses down from Bunker Hill, huddled into an alley, armed with the standard issue Institute laser pistol and distinctive black coat.

"I've been waiting for you," the Courser spat icily. "X4-18. Is your molecular relay chip damaged? You were instructed to travel directly to Bunker Hill." The Courser's words carried a thinly veiled note of hostility.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry I'm late," Wanderer dismissed, suppressing any outward indications of her stress like Deacon had taught her. "The line at the car wash? Super long. Took me forever and a day."

X4-18 scoffed, turning his glare away. "Your attempt at humor is wasted. Our targets are inside. Four synths, under Railroad protection."

"Majority of the settlement is uninvolved and are expected to run for cover. The situation appears to have… escalated," he said, barely stopping to conceal the look of suspicion in his face. "A covert approach is likely impossible. We move in, secure the synths, and I relay out with them back to the Institute. Clear?"

Wanderer nodded her understanding, and the courser handed her a neatly folded note, with four recall codes printed in crisp black ink. The paper was smooth and the ink clear, unlike Piper's messily printed newspapers. She tucked the note carefully into her pocket, shivering at the thought of having to use another recall code.

Before she could say anything else, she heard the distant sound of a vertiberd. Wanderer looked all around, it was not one but several vertiberds. The Brotherhood of Steel must be here, too. The Courser looked as though he wanted to curse, but his programming prevented it, though she had no idea if that were the case.

"The mission parameters just changed! We go in shooting. Requesting backup relay now," he cried, beckoning Wander to follow.

Gen 2 synths were already storming the walls of Bunker Hill, the gates having been closed tightly. She could hear ballistic weapons firing in the background. The Brotherhood forces were firing from all directions, cornering the Institute synths and her by association.

A stray bullet caught her shoulder as she made a run for the marketplace and into the latch that led to the underground bunker. She made a strangled cry when she felt for the wound, thankfully shielded with her jacket, but she had to keep moving. The passageway tunneled through to a clearing that could only be described as utter chaos. Railroad on one side guarding the door to the synths, Brotherhood on the other side, Institute synths relaying in at random to join the fight. Brotherhood commanders firing miniguns straight at her.

Wanderer dove into cover before any more bullets could find their way into her. Despite her ballistic weave, she wouldn't last long under minigun fire.

She jumped from cover, sneaking down from the battle and found another passageway, following it around the battlefield. _I could really use a Stealth Boy right about now,_ she thought, annoyed. Up, around, down, down…

Wanderer nearly ran face first into a metal door. She tried the knob to find it locked, but relatively easy to open as she slipped a bobby pin from her pocket.

She found the four synths in the last room, tucked in the very back room in the bunker. They were all huddled around each other, starting about in fear when she walked inside.

X4-18 ran in after her, grinning with some sort of sick satisfaction. She hadn't realized the Courser had been following her.

"The game is up, synths," he said, pointing his laser pistol and standing guard near the door as the synths cowered in the Courser's presence. The Courser looked to Wanderer expectantly. "Shall you recite the recall codes, or shall I?"

"I- I'll do it," Wanderer stammered, hands trembling. The synth escapees shook with fear, holding closely onto each other. They were friends, Wanderer realized, and they knew she was there to bring them back to their slavers.

One of the synths, the boy in front stepped forward, but Wanderer couldn't bring herself to draw her weapon on him.

"Please, don't do this," the boy begged. "I've got money if that's what you want, here," he said, holding out a trembling handful of what was at most a pocketful of caps. It was a pathetic effort, a last-ditch hope on their lives.

Wanderer couldn't breathe. "Well, Mrs. Farren?" the Courser asked behind her.

She said nothing to the boy, had nothing to say to the boy, but his extended handful of caps didn't budge. His eyes pleaded her silently.

The synths would never be free. They could run, the Institute always hunting, or they could return and live forever in servitude.

Even if the Railroad were to help them, they'd only be living a lie. False memories, false personality, they wouldn't be their true selves. Who knew what happened to a synth when it's personality was wiped? Was a small part of them still there, banging on the glass, trapped forever?

Slavery.

She knew what she had to do.

Wanderer raised Deliverer slowly, hands more still than they'd been in hours as she aimed for her target and struck true. The bullet embedded itself between the synth boy's eyes as he fell cold, dead.


	9. Chapter 9

The room exploded into action as the synth boy fell dead. The remaining synths screamed, horrified, a deafening sound that sickened Wanderer to her core. She was stuck, rooted to the ground for an eternal second as if she'd taken a hit of Jet, before time resumed, almost knocking her to the bunker floor.

She stood, could feel the Courser aiming his laser pistol for her head before she even turned to meet his eyes.

"You are damaging valuable Institute property!" X4-18 snapped, teeming with righteous anger. Property, that's all the synths were to the Institute. "If you do not cease this violence, I will be forced to retaliate!"

Wanderer screamed, adrenaline pumping. She flew at the Courser with recordlike speed and dexterity. Whirling around him before he could fire the laser pistol in time, Wanderer aimed Deliverer into his skull, and pulled the trigger, destroying that little area of flesh where the Courser chip would be.

She watched as X4-18 fall dead, amazed at how little effort it took compared to the last time she'd killed a Courser. With the Railroad's help, she'd grown stronger, faster. Wanderer wanted to feel remorse, wanted to regret the necessity of killing the Courser, but she only felt smug satisfaction as what remained of the X4-18's skull collided with the ground.

Wanderer's heaving breaths for several moments masked the sound of the remaining synths whimpering behind her. She turned around slowly, gasping.

Two of the four synths were dead- judging by the smoking wound on the synth girl, she'd been killed by the Courser's laser shot presumably meant for Wanderer.

"No," she whispered, eyes teeming too much for her to see clearly. What had she done? What the hell had she been thinking? This wasn't justice, this was… madness.

The remaining synths cradled their deceased, crying, waiting, begging for Wanderer to finish the job. They'd accepted their fate with cries and whimpers but still looked upon her with fear.

Wanderer backed away slowly, unable to look away from the lives she'd destroyed. She ran, ran as far as her feet would take her, face warm with utter shame. There was no way she could report back in with Desdemona after this utter failure.

* * *

She found Father atop the old CIT building, overlooking as the morning sun rose above the destroyed Commonwealth. He had turned away so that she could only see his side profile, but he looked to be holding himself stiffly.

"Son," Wanderer said gently as she approached, the word reminding her of all the memories of his childhood that would never be hers to share with him.

"You know," he began slowly, voice gentler than she expected, "In all my years I've never set foot outside the Institute. Not once since the day they brought me here. I've never had a reason. But now…" Father sighed. "This just confirms the truth I've always known. The Commonwealth is… dead. There's no future here. The only hope for humanity lies below."

"The people are rebuilding," she begged him to see. "It may be hard to see at first glance, believe me, but hope is everywhere. Hope that dims a little more after each loved one's disappearance in the night!"

Father simply shook his head. Wanderer sighed, turning her gaze to the skyline that he was so enraptured with, disgusted by. She wondered where the two remaining synths from Bunker Hill were now.

The decay of the wildlife was shocking, it being one of the first things she'd noticed about the world around her after leaving that godforsaken Vault. It had had been heartbreaking, she'd always loved trees- Nate loved picnics, it had been the perfect combination. When she left the Vault, all that she saw was death, and destruction.

Now, she was the source of death and destruction.

There were human settlements across the Commonwealth, many flourishing under the Minutemen's vigilant protection, people standing together selflessly to help, one day at a time. There were raiders and thieves, but there would always be raiders and thieves. There had been crooks in the old world, too. In this world, they were simply more open with their deviations from civility.

"Why did you come out here, then?" she asked him. Father was silent for a minute.

"To put things in perspective, I suppose. Standing here, I'm reminded how fortunate I am that I was spared a life in this wasteland. I know that to you, I was kidnapped from that Vault. In truth, the Institute rescued me. Both of us, really... more than you could hope to know."

"Rescued, Shaun? They left me on ice… for sixty years!"

Father turned to face her, finally pulling his attention from the morning wasteland, fire in his eyes. "They did, and for good reason," he declared. "I was the perfect candidate, an infant with uncorrupted DNA. But if something were to go wrong… if I died… Well, the Institute realized a contingency plan was prudent. Another source of pre-war DNA, preferably related to their primary subject. It only made sense that my parents should fill that role. So, you were kept alive and safe within the Vault."

She heard Kellogg's sandpaper voice whispering up to her cryo tank, _at least we still have the backup._

"But not your father?" she asked, tears threatening to spill. "Why keep me as the backup, but not Nate?"

"Yes, well," Father began. "Your… husband had spent many years in the military. While we had access to his service records, it was not easy to determine if he had been exposed to any unusual substances that may have altered his genetic coding. You, however, lived your entire life in Boston. The liabilities were too much for him, so he was not as important as you or I."

Wanderer's breath hitched in her throat, leering over the edge of the tall building, to the concrete hundreds of feet below. Father kept speaking, filling her heart with dread.

"I'll admit, when I had you released from Vault 111, I had no expectations that you'd survive out here, in all this. To not only do so but manage to find me… to infiltrate the Institute itself… extraordinary."

She whirled on him, tears already spilling. "It was you. You let me out."

"Yes. It was my decision," Father confirmed, no emotion in his words. "Certainly, it was no longer necessary to keep you suspended. I… well, I suppose I wanted to see what would happen. An experiment, of sorts. Would the Commonwealth corrupt you, as it had everything else? Would you even survive? Perhaps most curious to me… would you, after all this time attempt to find me?"

He chuckled then, a grim laugh at a joke that Wanderer could not see. "Now… I know the answer."

"That's all this is to you… All I am to you, just another experiment!" her voice raised in pitch as the seconds passed, as realization flowed through her. Even as her heart broke, Father's cool demeanor never showed one sign of slipping.

"No, that's not all," he said calmly. "But still, I'm glad it turned out the way it did. Soon I hope… I hope you'll understand. Everything I've done has been for the future. A future for us. A future which I hope is not in jeopardy after recent events. Bunker Hill did not go well for us. Would you care to explain what happened?"

Wanderer swallowed, throat turned dry.

"It's my fault. I wasn't able to complete the mission," she began slowly. "The synths… the battle was too chaotic. They were killed while trying to escape. The Brotherhood was, they were… relentless."

Father's expression hardened at the mention of the Brotherhood of Steel. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Wanderer couldn't help but feel like a dithering child facing the mire of a disappointed parent.

"I gave you _this_ opportunity to prove yourself. Particularly to prove to the Directorate that you deserve a place here. That will now be significantly harder," Father droned, his tone darkened. "There will be… accusations that you deliberately sabotaged the mission! Bunker Hill was to cement your place as an asset to the Institute. It will now only raise suspicions. And to see the Brotherhood of Steel involved in this…" Father scoffed.

"I don't know how the Brotherhood caught wind of Bunker Hill," she insisted, feeling it was the first honest thing she'd said all day. Father just shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Despite that, they should have had no way of knowing what was going on," he countered dismissively. "I will refrain from sharing the outcome with the Directorate for the moment. Things are in motion that this would only derail."

"What things?" she asked tentatively. He finally met her eyes and smiled, though the tension in his eyes was far from gone.

"Mother. It is time for you to become more involved in the future of the Institute. I'd like you to join me inside. The Directorate is meeting, and you should be there," Father offered. He extended his hand gently, and she accepted it without hesitation. It was warm, comforting.

"I've seen enough. It's time to go back in," he said as they relayed back to the Institute together.

* * *

Nearly an hour had passed that she stood in the shower, but Wanderer didn't bother to scrub the dirt from her hair or the blood from her fingernails. She stood there letting the water flow through, though she knew it would never be able to wash clean her mistakes.

She had promised to protect synths, had rescued countless many and given them the opportunity to live their lives in the wasteland, free of running from the Institute.

What if synths really were just machines, without any consciousness or feeling? Father made it sound so simple and she wanted to believe it, but the despair on the faces of those four synths was so… real. What if the Institute really had blurred the lines between machine and mortality? If so, it was a sick power that they should not have.

The water eventually ran cold, and Wanderer stepped out, changing into the blindingly white Institute jumper that she had strewn haphazardly across her bed. She was running late, Father would be upset, again. He'd asked her to join him at noon, sharp.

She found her son waiting for her outside the meeting room, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"There you are," Father gasped when she approached. "Let's get this directorate meeting over with before we speak further. Its… ah, its important."

She followed him up the winding white staircase into the meeting room, where all the Institute division heads sat waiting. When she followed Father into the secluded room, some of the division leaders scowled, particularly Dr. Ayo and Dr. Li.

"Sir," began Dr. Ayo nervously, "Excuse me but… what exactly is Mrs. Farren doing here?"

"I will address that issue, but there are other subjects that require our attention first," Father said calmly. "The level of unrest in the commonwealth continues to rise as I'm sure we're all aware. Your report?"

Dr. Filmore gave her report to Father, clearly wanting to diffuse the tension that had built in the meeting room, while Ayo watched Wanderer curiously.

Clearly, none of them trusted her yet, and they had good reason as far as Wanderer was concerned. She was an unknown quantity to them and there was no telling what her associations were. Frankly, if she weren't Shaun's mother, she doubted she'd have a place there at all.

When Ayo spoke again, Wanderer realized she'd been tuning them out.

"Yes, uh…" Ayo gave her a suspicious look, as if they were discussing something she shouldn't be hearing. "Watchers show no additional threats beyond those previously identified. We're still monitoring the increased activity around Fort Independence, but there are no immediate signs we should be concerned."

"Watchers?" Wanderer interrupted. She hadn't heard the term used in the Institute before.

Everyone at the meeting table had turned their heads to her sharply, before searching each other's eyes. Dr. Filmore was the first to answer.

"The Institute deploys… observers to keep tabs aboveground. It helps our operations, where we cannot see the outside world ourselves," she explained slowly.

"What kind of _observers_?" Wanderer asked again, thinking the word was too tame for what the Watchers really were.

Spies.

"They're synthetic beings resembling crows, mother," Father interjected. "Please, Dr. Ayo, continue with your report."

Dr. Ayo continued hesitantly, reporting movements from both the Brotherhood of Steel and the Railroad, while Wanderer's head swam with the information.

Deacon had always warned her away from the birds of the Commonwealth, and while following his advice, she'd mostly chalked it up to the Railroad being overly paranoid. The Institute had eyes and ears everywhere in the Commonwealth… they were keeping tabs on her own Minutemen settlements, for God's sake.

All this time she'd thought, hoped the Railroad had some chance of actually taking down the Institute. The Railroad was a small and secretive operation, not to mention idealistic, but filled with some of the most skilled and determined people she'd ever met. She'd always known it was a long shot, but this…

The way Ayo talked about the Railroad was the way one would talk about a fly buzzing in your ear, or a passing headache that would easily subside. They didn't even seem to consider the Railroad an actual adversary. So many Railroad operatives had given their lives, and for what? The dismissal of a pompous scientist?

"Very good, thank you," Father said when Ayo finally finished reporting. "It's clear that our safety needs to be the primary concern going forward. To that end, where are we on Phase Three?"

"Uh, sir, are you sure this is the time to be discussing it? Given… well, considering all parties present?" Dr. Li asked, carefully avoiding Wanderer's eyes.

"Ah yes, that's true. Have you heard anything about Phase Three?" Father asked Wanderer, his dismissal of Dr. Li's concerns not going unnoticed.

"I… can't say I have, no." Father nodded, unsurprised.

"The project has been classified for some time. Power is, as I'm sure you've seen aboveground, a valuable commodity. I'm not talking about some abstract construct of control, I mean real tangible power. The kind that keeps the lights on. With every advance the Institute makes, our need for raw power increases. Many compromises and sacrifices have been made over the years to allow progress to continue."

Wanderer said nothing, looking around the room to see all the division heads watching her, gauging her reaction. Father continued.

"For far too long we've been dependent on others, on our surroundings. That time is over. Phase Three is simply the activation of a nuclear reactor that can provide enough power to the Institute, now and forever. It will ensure not just our survival, but our prosperity. The reactor is close to ready, but recent tests have determined we have a few tasks ahead of us. Thus, we come to Phase Three. And to how you will help."

"Sir?" Ayo asked, clearly as in the dark about this as Wanderer herself was. Ayo said nothing more, though the question in his mind was clear.

"Yes, Dr. Ayo," Father said. "Previously, we would rely on Kellogg for above ground operations, yes? Well, he is gone. While I'm not overly fond of putting my mother in harm's way, she has proven more than capable of handling herself."

Wanderer hung her head. Judging by the outcome of Bunker Hill, that wasn't as true as Father made it seem. Surely the division heads would find that out for themselves, soon enough.

"Yes, but…"

"This is not a matter for debate," Father dismissed. "Now, there is another subject that requires discussion."

Clayton spoke up for the first time since they'd called the meeting.

"Father, I don't know that this is the time…"

"Dr. Holdren. It is time, please. As I'm sure several of you are aware, I have been under Dr. Volkert's care for some time. I'm sorry, this is… difficult for me." Father breathed a sigh, and Wanderer watched as the shell of the ruthless director of the Institute cracked to reveal a vulnerable man, her son. "Our best efforts have failed. Every experimental treatment we could devise has been unsuccessful. I'm… I'm sorry to say that I am dying."

All the scientists and Wanderer exclaimed in shock.

"Everyone, please. Please! I am sorry. This is not how I wanted to tell you, but I am running out of time," Father said quietly, raising a hand to assuage them all.

"This can't be happening," Wanderer whispered. "I… I only just found you!"

Father's eyes were sorrowful. "I've had the same thought more than a few times," he said, "But we cannot let this stop us. Our work must continue. We can talk more later… right now, the future of the Institute is at stake. The Institute cannot survive without leadership. The Directorate must continue to govern with the best interests of all in mind. To that end, I am naming Monica Farren, my mother, as my successor."

For what felt like the tenth time since the meeting began, all the scientists broke out into a shocked chatter, Dr. Li and Dr. Ayo more perturbed than the rest.

"Seems a poor choice," Dr. Li mumbled, her cold dark eyes scathing Wanderer up and down.

"How can you possibly justify this?" Ayo demanded, his patience with Father finally nearing its end. "She isn't one of us… she isn't even a scientist!"

"Ignoring your borderline-insubordinate tone, I will simply say this. The Institute has enough scientists. What it needs is a leader. I believe my mother has already proven herself more than capable in that regard. This will conclude this meeting. Thank you," his tone was polite, yet firm and final. The scientists, still bewildered, stood one at a time and took their leave with a mumbled farewell.

"I had no idea," Wanderer whispered once they had all left. Father didn't meet her eyes right away, wringing his hands on the tabletop.

"I know this is… well, it's a lot to take in at once," he said to her after a long silence. "I'm sorry, mother. I hope it wasn't too presumptuous for me to put you in charge without even asking you first. But believe this… you were meant to lead the Institute." He stood finally, facing her with those sweet blue eyes that reminded her so much of Nate.

"I… I don't know if I can do this," Wanderer admitted, and it was true.

"Of course you can. You were… you are the best possible candidate. That is why I made the decision. There's no question that some of the Directorate, and the Institute at large, will need reassurances about your appointment… but enough about that, for now. I have a surprise for you, mother. A gift, as it were."

"A gift? What do you mean, a gift? How much time have we got, Shaun?"

Father placed his hands on her shoulders reassuringly.

"It's alright mother, there will be time to discuss the details. Follow me," he instructed, giving her shoulders a light squeeze and leaving the meeting room with energy in his step.

Following through the hallways, Wanderer caught a reflection of herself in the glass, and scarcely recognized the person gaping back at her. The one staring through her own eyes was a face she had not seen for months.

It was not a hardened wasteland warrior that stared back, but a worried mother, fears for her son apparent in the soft lines of her face. Her dusty blonde hair fell neatly, framing her face without flecks of blood or grease or dirt.

It was not Wanderer, the agent that met her eyes in the mirror but Monica Farren, loving wife, mother, and lawyer.

She was so distracted by the revelation that she didn't notice where Father was taking her as they crossed the Atrium into Advanced Systems, Dr. Li's laboratories.

The only thing to pull her from her reverie was the young synth Shaun, locked behind a glass barrier calmly piecing together a solid white puzzle. They stopped in front of his prison.

"Is this the surprise, Shaun?" she asked quietly, unsure why else he'd have taken her there.

"Not quite, mother," his voice sounding almost gleeful. "Just wanted to say hello."

"Hello, Father," the young Shaun greeted politely, giving Monica a nervous glance. She wondered how much of their first meeting the boy remembered, if any at all.

They entered a side lab, the sterilized white walls seemed to be closing in on Monica. In the center of the room was a lab table, a single human-shaped body lying underneath a white sheet.

She jolted at the sight, not expecting whatever they came here to see.

"Is… is it dead?" she asked quietly, to which Father smiled.

"Far from it," he said vaguely and took Monica's hand.

They approached the body slowly, and Wanderer took in the rest of the room. White and sterile, as was most of the Institute, but this room felt unnaturally bare. There was a shelf, though it was bare; the lab table in the center of the room the only indication that the Institute scientists used the room.

"Are you ready?" Father asked her with an encouraging smile. Monica just stared at her son, unsure.

Father pinched each corner of the blanket and pulled it down, tantalizingly slow revealing the figure underneath the sheet.

Her deceased husband's face stared back up at her, very much alive and healthy, and blinked slowly.


End file.
